


songs to make money to

by stripperviolet



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, Dungeons & Dragons, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Mentor/Protégé, Recreational Drug Use, Romantic Friendship, Strip Club Typical Sexual Assault, Stripper Keith (Voltron), Stripper Matt Holt, Stripper Shiro (Voltron), Strippers & Strip Clubs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-22
Updated: 2018-09-14
Packaged: 2019-05-26 16:31:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 26,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15004877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stripperviolet/pseuds/stripperviolet
Summary: The new kid in the dressing room is a raging tempest of anger and insecurity. He's rude to everyone, and he reacts aggressively to every imagined slight. Shiro takes him under his wing anyway, and discovers that beneath that stormy exterior is a driven, kind-hearted, fiercely loyal person. The other dancers are content to ignore Dallas until he gets himself fired, but Shiro knows what he sees. Dallas has what it takes to succeed.He just...needs a little help.[Discontinued and being rewritten]





	1. Ladies and Gentlemen

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, all! Welcome to yet another stripper AU. This fic will focus on Shiro and Keith's developing working relationship, and will be heavy on mentorship, mutual support, and small intimacies. This is the wrong fic for anyone looking for a Super Sexy Seedy Underbelly setting, but classic strip club imagery will be in abundance, and there will be strip club-typical alcohol and drug use and sexual assault.
> 
> Also, I'm basing the whole setting off of female strip clubs. I have no knowledge of male strip clubs and I don't claim to.

There’s a new kid in the dressing room. Nothing new, dancers come and go, but this one catches Shiro’s eye. He’s short-ish and lean-muscled, clad in a bright red jacket and black jeans so tight they could be painted on.

He’s also in Shiro’s spot.

“Hey,” Shiro greets as he comes up on the kid from behind. The new kid jumps nearly a foot in the air and spins around to face Shiro. Shiro raises his hands in a gesture of peace. “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you. My locker’s right there, would you mind moving down a bit?”

The new kid’s startled pose shutters into one of hostility, all narrowed eyes and set shoulders. “What, you can’t wait five minutes?”

Ah. So he’s one of these. Shiro pulls his shoulders back and crosses his arms. “No,” he says. “I can’t. I need to get ready for work, and you’re blocking my locker. Please move your stuff.”

“You’re being too nice to him, Champion,” a voice calls from somewhere else in the room. “Tell him to shove off or you’ll beat his ass.”

“Pfft,” new kid scoffs in the general direction the voice came from. “Like this guy’s ever beat anyone’s ass.” He turns back to Shiro. “I bet you’ve never even been in a fight.” He looks Shiro up and down. “Karate or judo or whatever doesn’t count.”

“Champion…” the voice comes again.

Shiro sighs. It’s always up to him to take care of the troublemakers. It makes sense, because he’s good at de-escalating tense situations. People listen to him when they won’t listen to anyone else. But honestly, the club should pay him a wage for all the extra work he does. He draws himself up to his full height and takes a step forward.

“Oh, what, you’re really gonna pretend like you’re gonna fight me? Let’s see it then, come on—”

“We don’t do that here.”

New kid stops short. “Huh?”

“Fighting. Talking shit. Being rude. We don’t do that here.” Shiro stares the kid down, taking in his appearance. He’s young, or if he isn’t, he looks it. Black hair, fair skin, gray eyes that almost look violet under the lights, pretty face, good body...he’ll do well if he lasts long enough to learn the ropes, but pissing off the other dancers on his first night does not bode well for his future. Apparently, that’s Shiro’s problem tonight. “We’re all here to make our own money, but we’re not unnecessarily antagonistic. We support each other, we work together, and we don’t throw a fit when someone asks us politely to move.”

The new kid bristles. “Who the hell do you think you are—"

“Also, if you can’t handle talking to other dancers in the dressing room, you won’t last one shift talking to customers. You won’t make any money if you get fired on your first night.”

New kid tenses, then deflates. “Spare me the lecture,” he spits, but he grabs his bag and shoves it a couple feet down the counter. He keeps his eyes trained on his stuff, not looking at Shiro or any of the other dancers.

“Thanks,” Shiro says, dropping to a frog-squat so he can open his locker. “I’m Champion, and that guy over, uh, there,” he gestures vaguely toward the voice, “is Chip.”

“Sorry for the beating your ass comment. Just a joke between old friends.” Matt finally pops out of wherever he’s been hiding, walking over to the new kid and offering his hand. “Good to meet you.”

New kid just stares. “Uh, right.”

Matt grins, unfazed. “And your name is…?”

“K- um. Dallas.”

“Dallas, I gotta say, your introductions need a little work.”

New kid—Dallas—flushes and tenses up all over again.

“Leave him alone, Chip,” Shiro calls, because apparently, he has to babysit experienced dancers too tonight. “It’s nice to meet you, Dallas.”

Dallas hesitates, looking between Shiro and Matt. “Uh,” he says, “you too.”

* * *

Dallas is a natural on stage. He has good rhythm, he’s graceful, he’s sexy, he points his toes. Shiro almost doubts he’s new, but for one dead giveaway: he climbs the pole like a child, not like a stripper. It’s a standard baby stripper mistake, and one that’s easily rectified. Most new dancers fix their form by getting help from older dancers, but the painfully slow Tuesday night drags on and Dallas keeps to himself. He seems like a quick enough study that he can learn by watching other dancers from afar, but…

That’s not how Shiro learned. That’s not how Matt learned. The two of them are just camped out together on one of the couches alternating between watching videos on their phones and complaining about how there aren’t any customers.

“Hey Chip,” Shiro starts, “let’s go—”

Matt’s phone rings. “Gotta take this,” he says. “My sister.” He stands up, phone to his ear. “Hey, Pidge. Yeah, I am, but it’s so dead it doesn’t matter. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. What, seriously? That’s—” He’s out of earshot before Shiro can eavesdrop too much.

A dancer Shiro recognizes but doesn’t know leans over the arm of the adjacent couch. “Did he just call his sister a bitch?”

 “No clue,” Shiro says, already getting up. Dallas is half-sitting, half-leaning on one of the bar stools, shoulders tense, arms crossed, gaze trained on the dancer on stage. Shiro takes the stool next to him. “Hey, Dallas.”

Dallas jumps again. “Huh? Oh. Hi. Champion.” He looks twice as tense now that Shiro’s in his space. He gestures around the club. “Is it always like this?”

“No, tonight is unusually slow. Weeknights are generally slower and more regulars-heavy, but this is the worst Tuesday I’ve seen in months.” Shiro smiles. “It’s actually not bad for your first night.”

Dallas, predictably, snarls at that. “Yeah. Fucking great night.” He gets, if possible, even more tense. “Look, I don’t need this shit from you.”

Shiro draws back. “What?”

Dallas gives Shiro that hostile, defensive look that Shiro’s beginning to recognize as his signature. “You can play alpha dog in the dressing room all you want. I’m not afraid of you. But don’t come up to me with some two-faced bullshit like you’re trying to be my friend or something. Go find someone else to play head games with.”

“Head games? Dallas, I—”

“I know how it works around here. You test the new dancers, see how much they’ll take, and then you break them down and force them out. I’m not naïve like that. You can’t pull that shit on me.”

For a moment, Shiro just stares. Sure, that kind of manipulation isn’t unheard of, and not every older dancer can be trusted. Dallas is actually pretty savvy to be thinking about these things. Open hostility is not the way to combat them, but Shiro will let that go for now. “You’re right,” Shiro says. “Some dancers will try to weed you out like that. I’m not asking you to trust me. I’m just asking if you want to learn how to climb the pole properly.”

“What?”

Shiro gestures toward the side stage that goes unused on slow nights like tonight. “When it’s slow like this, sometimes dancers teach each other moves or practice together. Tonight is a good opportunity for you to learn. That’s what I meant when I said it’s not such a bad night.”

Some of the tension leaves Dallas’s shoulders, but his arms stay crossed and he keeps his defensive look. “What’s wrong with how I climb the pole?”

“Let me demonstrate,” Shiro says. “Come on.” He manages to lead Dallas over to the seats by the side stage, then he makes his way to the pole at center stage. “I was watching your stage sets—your floor work is really graceful, by the way. Do you have a background in dance?”

Dallas responds with silence.

Shiro moves on. “Okay, so, when you climb, you do it like this.” He grips the pole high above his head with both hands and jumps, clamping the pole between his thighs and keeping his knees bent awkwardly. He muscles his way up one hand at a time, only moving his lower body once he’s pulled himself up. He waves down at Dallas before sliding back down.

Dallas winces. “Shit. I knew it wasn’t right but, uh, I didn’t know it looked like that. It felt like it looked better when I was doing it.”

“At the beginning, it’s hard to tell the difference between how you look and how you feel,” Shiro says. “Now let me show you what you should be doing.” This, he doesn’t have to think about. He climbs the pole the same way he does it every shift, then again looks down at Dallas and waves before coming back down.

Dallas processes fast. “So, you’re climbing in the opposite order.”

“Huh?” Shiro says.

“You’re—” Dallas huffs. “I climb like arms, then legs. You climb like legs, then arms.”

“I…guess?” Shiro’s sure the explanation makes sense to Dallas. “Come up here and show me what you mean.”

Dallas does, and it’s stunning how fast he learns. During his last stage set half an hour ago he looked like a ten-year-old on the playground. Now, after watching Shiro once, he looks like a stripper.

“That’s really good,” Shiro says. “I can’t believe you picked this up just from observation.”

Dallas cracks a small smile, the first Shiro’s seen on him all night. “Look,” he says, continuing to climb. “Legs, then I’m straight, and _then_ I move my arms. See? Legs. Then arms.”

Shiro absolutely would not describe it that way, but, “Sure.” He makes a mental note to not let Dallas teach anyone else how to climb.

Dallas’s smile gets wider. “You don’t like my explanation.” He waves down at Shiro and then fireman slides back down to the stage.

“Not even a little bit,” Shiro replies, and oh, he feels himself smiling too. “But if it works for you, it works for you.”

Dallas should smile more, Shiro thinks. His face is _radiant_ when he smiles.

“I still don’t trust you,” Dallas says as they’re walking back to the dressing room together.

“I’m still not asking you to,” Shiro answers.

Dallas looks down at his feet. “But,” he says, “thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Shiro says. “Feel free to ask me if you want to learn any pole tricks, or if you’ve got questions about this club or the industry in general.” He spreads his hands. “I’m an open book.”

Dallas scoffs. “You wouldn’t give away all your secrets.”

“I’ll teach you everything I know.”

“Yeah, right.” Dallas rolls his eyes.

Shiro just smiles.

* * *

“Hey Champion,” Matt calls as they’re changing back into their street clothes at the end of the night. “You coming over tonight?”

Shiro struggles to pull his duffel bag out of his locker. He really shouldn’t bring so many outfits. “Yeah, sure. I’ve got clothes there, right?”

“Yeah,” Matt says, dropping his tiny silver shorts to the floor and replacing them with teal y-fronts and a familiar pair of gray cargo shorts. “I think you’ve got a whole drawer.”

“I’ve left that much at your place?” Okay, it’s not the outfits that are the problem. It’s the shoes. Maybe Shiro should just keep a couple versatile pairs in his locker, and only bring shoes when they’re part of a specific outfit.

Matt chuckles. “For how often you’re over, I’m surprised you only have one drawer.” He fidgets with the waistband of his shorts. “Did I gain weight? These are kinda tight.”

“That’s because they’re Pidge’s,” Shiro says.

Matt looks down. “Curse my sister and her similar clothes—oh, and I gotta tell you something cool when we get to the car. Also, I’m the only one allowed to call her Pidge.”

“To her face.”

“Whatever.” Matt keeps fiddling with the shorts.

Shiro pulls his hoodie on and spares a glance over at Dallas. He’s fully dressed but he hasn’t left yet, and is instead looking down at his bag with the intent expression of someone who’s trying hard to look like they’re not eavesdropping. It’s…kind of cute. For all his prickliness, Dallas is a pretty cute kid.

“Dallas,” Shiro asks, “are you working tomorrow?”

Dallas startles, again. He’s so jumpy. “Huh? Oh. Yeah, I was planning on it.”

Shiro smiles. “Cool, I’ll see you tomorrow then.” He hoists his bag over his shoulder. “Fingers crossed for a good night.”

“I always have good Wednesdays,” Matt chimes in, pulling on his backpack. “Don’t worry too much about tonight, if Champion didn’t make any money then there was no hope for the rest of us.”

“I, uh,” Dallas says, “I can see that.”

Matt raises an eyebrow.

Dallas turns bright red. “I mean, I can…he’s just…whatever.” He grabs his bag and all but runs out of the dressing room.

Yeah. Cute kid.

“Get home safe!” Matt calls, laughing. He turns back to Shiro. “Well, look at you. What did you get up to tonight, hm?”

Shiro rolls his eyes. “Oh, shut up. He just looks like he could use some help.”

“That he does,” Matt says. “Good on you for taking him under your wing. You ready to go?”

“More than. Let’s get out of here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _welcome to the show_  
>  _please come inside_  
>  Saliva, _Ladies and Gentlemen_
> 
> yes, Keith's stripper name is Dallas because of his dad Texas Kogane.  
> 


	2. Pony

Wednesday is a good night. Shiro and Matt start their shift sitting with a bachelorette party who order a bottle of tequila. Shiro gets a little too drunk, but the women tip well, and the alcohol primes Shiro for the rest of his shift. There’s a small but steady flow of customers throughout the night, and Shiro flits from group to group. The tequila makes him bold and unafraid of rejection, and he ends up chatting up just about everyone, even the people he’d usually write off as uninterested. His forwardness pays off. By 11:30, Shiro's in a private room, and his customer keeps extending all the way until closing time.

Shiro and Matt reconvene in the dressing room to change and count their cash.

“How was your night, Chip?” Shiro asks.

Matt hums. “Not too bad. My regular kept hinting like he was going to come in and then didn’t, ugh, but I still made my money without him.”

“Good,” Shiro says. “Fuck him.”

“How about you, how was your night? You disappeared on me.”

Shiro feels the grin overtake his face. “I was in a room,” he says, “for _two and a half hours_.”

Matt’s face lights up. “Holy shit,” he says. “Plus a good tip I hope?”

“Pfft. What do you take me for?”

Matt claps Shiro on the shoulder. “That’s why you’re the Champion!”

“I got his phone number too. I’m gonna try to get him to come back, maybe with a friend for you.” Shiro offers his fist.

Matt pounds it. “Hell yes you are. Oh, speaking of friends, have you thought about that- uh oh.”

Matt’s interrupted by a raging storm of a dancer barreling through the dressing room. It’s Dallas, sporting a foul expression. He all but tears into his outfit, shoes and shorts and shirt hitting the dressing room floor as quickly and loudly as he can manage.

Shiro looks at Matt. Matt looks at Shiro.

“Hey, Dallas?” Shiro ventures.

Dallas pauses his hurricane clothing change long enough to look at Shiro—or rather, at Shiro’s money. “Fuck off,” he says, and resumes violently pulling his street clothes out of his bag.

Shiro tries again. “Dallas.”

“ _What_?” Dallas slams his bag down on the counter. “What the fuck could I possibly be doing to offend you? Want me to move down more?” He shoves his bag further away from Shiro’s locker. “There. Happy?”

“No,” Shiro says. “I just…” Shiro glances around the dressing room. Some people are staring, and some are making the effort to mind their own business. Matt has engaged a couple other dancers in some inane conversation to try and distract them, but he’s only one person and Dallas is being upset pretty loudly. Shiro reaches into his locker and pulls out a pack of cigarettes. “Do you smoke?”

Dallas’s gaze runs from the cigarettes to Shiro’s money to Shiro. “Uh. Sometimes.”

Shiro nods. “Get dressed and let’s go have a cig then.”

Dallas stares at Shiro like he’s crazy. Shiro flits his gaze around the dressing room. Dallas finally seems to notice that he’s causing a scene and replies, “Okay. Sure. Let’s go smoke.”

The smoking patio is empty. The club has been cleared of customers, and all the other dancers are either in the dressing room or already on their way home. It’s quiet. Private.

Shiro lights his cigarette and passes his lighter over. “Bad night?”

Dallas lights up, coughs a little, and gives the lighter back. “You care?”

“Just…making conversation.”

“Why?”

Shiro takes a long drag and blows the smoke upward. “Because you can’t be upset like that in the dressing room. You’re letting everyone know you didn’t make money.”

“They already knew that,” Dallas says.

“Not necessarily,” Shiro replies. “Maybe the people who pay close attention to the newcomers know, but most of us focus on our own money. We’re not all out to get you.” He takes another drag before continuing. “And the ones who are out to get you don’t need to see you like this. If you’re easily riled, you’re an easy target. There are people here who will see your weak points and your sore spots and prod at them just because they can.”

Dallas gives Shiro a withering look. “Kind of like what you’re doing right now?”

“Maybe. Up to you to decide if I have good intentions or not.”

“I already told you I don’t trust you.”

Shiro taps his cigarette and watches the ash fall to the pavement. “You don’t have to. I’m not asking you to.”

“You kind of are.” Dallas taps the ash off his cigarette as well. It falls off in a huge clump, and Shiro realizes Dallas hasn’t touched the cigarette since he lit it.

Shiro smiles. “You’re right,” he says. “I am asking you to trust me. But you don’t have to.”

Dallas heaves a long sigh. “It’s just,” he says, “I don’t know how to talk to people. I saw you and Chip with that group of women, and you were nodding and laughing even though I heard some of your conversation and it was the most annoying shit I’ve ever heard. I can’t put up with that. I don’t know how to. And,” he stomps his cigarette out, “there were so many people who came in, and so many dancers had a good night, but I just sat there. I didn’t do any dances. I didn’t talk to anybody. I thought stripping was just, take your clothes off, give lap dances, make money. I can’t do this fake bullshit conversation thing. I don’t have any idea what to say to these fucking people, and I’m going home owing the club money while you made, like, actual thousands.” Dallas runs a hand through his hair. “Fuck, why am I telling you this?”

Shiro takes one last drag and puts his cigarette out. “Because I can help you. I’ve been there. We’ve all been there. Dallas, nobody comes into this industry knowing exactly what they’re getting into. Going up to customers and starting a conversation is tough. It’s probably the hardest part of the job. Everyone has trouble with it when they’re first starting out, and even the most seasoned dancers still screw it up sometimes.”

Dallas rolls his eyes. “Not you.”

“Not me _tonight_ ,” Shiro says. “I had some help.”

“Help?”

“Tequila. From sitting with that bachelorette party.”

“Oh.” Dallas scuffs his shoe on the ground. “Wouldn’t be much help for me then.”

“You don’t drink?”

“Can’t. I’m eighteen.”

“Ah,” Shiro says. “Yeah, no tequila for you then. That’s probably for the best. You’ll learn how to work sober.”

Dallas grimaces. “I don’t know that I could keep up a conversation with these people even if I were drunk.”

“You could try weed. Or coke.” Shiro puts his hands in the pocket of his hoodie. He’s getting cold standing outside.

Dallas shakes his head. “Weed makes me anti-social. Coke,” he makes a face, “maybe uh, maybe later. Or never.” He shivers. He’s wearing fewer layers than Shiro, and he’s far slighter in build. If Shiro’s cold, Dallas must be freezing.

Shiro chuckles. “I was mostly joking about the coke. Listen, Dallas, next time we work together, I can give you some conversation starters to break the ice with customers, and some tips on psyching yourself up to actually get up and go talk to them.” He pauses. “If you want.”

A small smile works its way onto Dallas’s face. “I’d…like that,” he says. Then, “It’s fucking cold out.”

“Let’s head back in,” Shiro says. “And you don’t really smoke, do you?”

Dallas’s cheeks turn pink. “Not…not really.”

“Well, I appreciate you coming out here and talking to me anyway.” Shiro holds the door open for Dallas.

“That’s,” Dallas says, stopping in the doorway to give Shiro an incredulous look. “Yeah, whatever.”

* * *

Shiro comes out of a half hour room to a busy club and Dallas sulking on a couch.

“Hey,” Shiro greets, sitting down beside him, “what happened? There’s people out there, have you talked to them already?”

Dallas crosses his arms and huffs. “Some of them.”

“And?” Shiro prompts.

Dallas crosses his legs. “They said no. Like, five people, right in a row. One guy even said I was being _aggressive_ or something, but all I did was start a conversation and ask for a dance.”

Shiro’s pretty sure Dallas did a fair bit more than that, but it’s not worth mentioning now. “You just have to keep at it,” he says. “Be polite, pretend you’re interested in them—”

“I can’t _do_ that, Champion! These people say the dumbest shit, half of them are just obnoxious and the other half can’t wait to tell somebody how racist they are. It pisses me off.”

“I know,” Shiro says, “but you have to learn to ignore it.”

Dallas snarls and looks away.

“It was difficult for me, too,” Shiro says. “Something that really helped me when I was new was treating the club like a game.”

“A game?”

“Yeah. I would think of myself as a shapeshifter, and my goal was to mold myself into the type of person each customer wanted to see. Having that goal made it easier to stomach the repetitive, annoying conversations, because I wasn't focusing on the conversation, I was focusing on my goal.”

Dallas heaves a huge sigh. “And how do you do that? How do you see what sort of person someone wants?”

Shiro fiddles with his money bag. “Most times, they’ll tell you. All you have to do is listen to them, and know what you’re listening for.”

“Fuck,” Dallas says. “That’s so unhelpful.”

“You need to be patient,” Shiro says. “With the customers, and with yourself. Remember: patience yields focus. You’ll get there, Dallas. You just need practice.”

“ _Ladies and gentlemen,_ ” the DJ says over the intercom, “ _that’s Troy wrapping up his second and final song on the main stage. He’s coming down and joining you on the main floor. Look at that body! Get a private dance with Troy tonight. We’ve got a new entertainer coming up, please help me welcome Champion to the main stage!_ ”

“What? I just got out of a room,” Shiro complains. “I need to rest.”

“Go cry about it,” Dallas says.

Shiro stands up and stretches. “No time,” he says, “unless I want to cry on stage.”

“ _Please_ do that.”

“ _Once again, we’re looking for Champion on the main stage._ ”

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” Shiro grumbles. “Can’t wait thirty seconds.”

Dallas doesn’t follow Shiro, but Shiro feels his gaze on him for his entire stage set.

* * *

“I’ll see you tomorrow for D&D?”

“You sure will. Thanks, Matt. Get home safe.” Shiro grabs his dance bag, closes the passenger side door, and waves at Matt as he drives away. They’ve been carpooling for about six months, ever since they realized they lived about five minutes away from each other. It’s been a huge relief for Shiro, who used to rely on Uber to get to and from work, and Matt’s happy to have someone to split gas and parking costs with.

Shiro unlocks his door and tosses his dance bag on the floor. He’ll take out his dirty outfits later—right now, he needs food. He uses his days off to cook as many meals as he can, so that all he has to do when he gets home from work is pop leftovers in the microwave. It’s healthy, convenient, and a damn successful fast food avoidance tactic. Shiro loves binge eating after a shift as much as anyone, but he’s had to be careful lately. Now that he’s hit his mid-twenties, his metabolism is slowing down. He can still put away a burrito the size of his forearm _and_ a family-size bag of hot Cheetos just like he used to in his baby stripper days, but it all goes to his middle now. Getting older truly is unfair.

Shiro finds himself thinking about Dallas as he’s waiting for his meal to heat up. He’s only known the kid for a couple of days, but he feels…drawn to him, somehow, protective of him even though they’ve just met. Shiro knows he can be a little too nice sometimes to people who don’t deserve it. Ever since he got his bearings as a dancer, he’s done a lot of work and made a lot of money for new dancers who ended up washing out because they wouldn’t or couldn’t do any of that work for themselves. Some people aren’t cut out for dancing, and at first glance, it looks like Dallas is one of those people. But Shiro has a _feeling_ about him, like if he can get past his hotheadedness and learn some patience, he’ll do well.

Maybe it’s just wishful thinking. Maybe Shiro sees himself in Dallas, and he’s setting himself up for disappointment by trying to make Dallas into someone he’s not. Maybe he should disengage and let Dallas either quit or get fired.

But even if all these things are true, Shiro still can’t shake this _feeling_ that Dallas has something the others didn’t have. That Dallas has the drive, and the motivation, and the talent. That he just needs to believe he does and he’ll make his own success. That Shiro can’t give up on him.

The microwave beeps.

* * *

“Do they play this song every night?”

It’s 8:30 on a Saturday night, and Shiro and Dallas are sitting together at the bar watching Matt do his set on the side stage. There’s a small crowd throwing money at the main stage on the other side of the club, but Matt goes unnoticed as he exaggeratedly mimics riding a horse—or, well, a pony. Shiro catches Matt’s eye and winks. Matt finger-guns back. “It’s a stripper classic,” Shiro replies.

“I know _that_. But…every night?” Dallas looks up at Matt and makes a face. “What is he doing?”

Shiro laughs. “Killing time. When it’s early and nobody’s tipping, it doesn’t make sense to waste our energy on stage.” Shiro gets caught by Matt’s mime-lasso. “Looks like we’re being pulled in—come on.”

Dallas, surprisingly, plays along and lets Matt fake-drag him to the side stage’s tip rail. “So,” he says, “ _every night_?”

“Every night,” Shiro confirms. “For twenty years, probably.”

Matt kneels facing Dallas. “And Champion’s been here every night of those twenty years.” He rolls forward on his forearms so his face rests on his hands and his ass is in the air, then looks coyly up at Shiro. “But he doesn’t look it, does he?”

Shiro rolls his eyes. “Put your ass down.”

Matt drops his hips to the stage and props himself up on his forearms. “What’s every night?”

“This song,” Dallas says.

“Oh,” Matt says. “Yeah. Every night. Sometimes multiple times a night. Different remixes, you know.”

“God,” Dallas says.

Matt laughs. “You learn to love it.”

“You do?” Dallas glances over at Shiro.

Shiro shrugs. “It’s either that or go crazy.”

Dallas smirks. “You all are already crazy.”

Shiro smiles back. “Fair point.”

Matt pulls his knees under him and slides back up to a kneel, looking curiously between Shiro and Dallas. He opens his mouth to speak. Shiro shakes his head minutely. He knows what Matt wants to ask, but they definitely can’t have this conversation with Dallas around.

A trio of tipsy women in short dresses and stilettos walk in and head for the bar. Matt huffs a tiny sigh and resumes dancing. Shiro catches the eye of one of the women and waves her over.

“Hey babe,” he greets, lightly resting his hand on her forearm. “You ladies look like you know how to party. Why don’t you and your friends come sit with me and my friends?”

The customer looks appraisingly upon Shiro, Dallas, and Matt. Her eyes are a little glassy. She smiles. “We’d love to,” she says. “I’m Emily.”

Shiro kisses the back of her hand. “Pleased to meet you,” he says. “I’m Champion. This is Dallas, and that’s Chip on stage.”

The customer giggles and dumps herself into Shiro’s lap, slinging her arms around his neck. “You smell really good,” she says. “Hey, Rachel! Lauren! Hey! _Hey!_ ” She yells right in Shiro’s ear until her friends turn around. “Get your asses over here so we can give these beautiful pieces of man some _money!_ ”

Dallas looks at Shiro, wide-eyed and overwhelmed.

_Patience yields focus_ , Shiro mouths.

Dallas takes a deep breath and nods. The song ends. Matt finishes his stage set and comes down to greet the group. One of the women puts her hand on Dallas’s shoulder.

It’s go time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _if you're horny, let's do it_  
>  _ride it, my pony_  
>  _my saddle's waiting_  
>  _come and jump on it_  
>  Ginuwine, _Pony_
> 
> We're gonna get more strippery soon.


	3. Love On The Brain (Don Diablo Remix)

It’s the end of the night. The dressing room is nearly empty. Most dancers have changed and left for the night. Matt’s outside with the bouncers, shooting the shit and waiting for Shiro so they can walk to Matt’s car. Matt can wait a little longer. Right now, Shiro wants to be here.

Dallas stares wide-eyed at his money. It’s laid out in some organized chaos on the counter by his dance bag. Twenties fanned out here, ones crumpled in a pile over there, hundreds placed lovingly next to one another like treasures on display. Those women really pulled through. So did the next group Shiro and Dallas sat down with, and so evidently did the customers Dallas worked all by himself. Dallas did well for himself tonight.

There’s a hesitation to Dallas’s movements as he reaches for the ones. His hands shake as he straightens out the folded and crumpled bills and stacks them in a neat pile. He picks up the twenties and flips through them, then inhales and does it again, this time slowly, almost reverently. By the time he reaches the hundreds, he’s adoring. He brushes them with just his fingertips, as though he’s afraid to touch them, as though he’s not sure he’s worthy. His gaze turns worshipful as he takes in the full amount that lies before him.

Then, Dallas turns that worshipful gaze on Shiro.

“Champion,” he says in a hoarse voice that’s just louder than a whisper, “this...this is...”

“It’s nice, isn’t it?” Shiro says. “Counting your money after a good night.”

“A good night?” Dallas lets out a rough laugh. “This is more than I thought I’d make in a week.”

Shiro smiles, warmth blossoming in his chest. His own money has been stuffed uncounted into his bag. He’s got a rough estimate of how much he has, and that’s all he needs to know until he gets home. But he remembers the awe that struck him when he looked upon his first real pile of cash, how he counted and re-counted it until he was certain it wasn’t a dream. “I knew you could do it,” he says.

“You did.” A grin lights up Dallas’s face. For a brief moment, they beam at each other and bask in their shared pride in Dallas’s success.

Then Dallas grabs one of his hundreds and sticks it in Shiro’s face. “Take it,” he says.

“What?” Shiro’s smile falls. He tries to push Dallas’s hand back. “Dallas, this is your money.”

Dallas waves the bill insistently. “Management told me I should tip the people who help me make money.”

“That’s for staff—”

“I wouldn’t have made anything if it wasn’t for you. I would’ve just sat around complaining until I quit or got fired.” Dallas takes a deep breath. His eyes are pleading, nearly desperate. “Please, Champion. Take it. It means a lot to me. Your help means a lot to me.”

Shiro blinks between Dallas and the hundred in his hand. Something clicks. Gently, but firmly, he pushes Dallas’s hand down. “You won’t get rid of me that easily,” he says.

Dallas’s face falls. The crisp bill gets crumpled in his fist. “Champion, you’ve given me so much. I want to repay you, but I…I don’t know what I have, other than money, that I can give you in return.”

“Are you quitting?” Shiro asks.

“What?” Dallas’s eyes go wide. “No!”

“Then that’ll change.” Shiro takes Dallas’s fist and gently pries it open, taking the bill out and flattening it against the rim of the counter. “We all end up helping each other out. I can guarantee you that if we work together long enough, I’ll end up needing you.”

Dallas looks at the re-flattened hundred, then turns back to Shiro, his mouth set in a determined line. “I’ll come through for you, Champion,” he says. “I promise.”

Shiro smiles. “My real name is Takashi,” he says, “but my friends call me Shiro.”

“Shiro.” Dallas rolls the name around in his mouth, testing it out. “Shiro.”

“That’s for pre- and post-work only,” Shiro reminds. “I don’t need everyone here knowing my name.”

“Understood,” Dallas says. He pauses, then holds out his hand. “I’m Keith.”

“Hi, Keith.” Shiro shakes his hand. Even though they already know each other, it feels like the beginning.

* * *

Shiro plays D&D on Sundays. Matt’s just started DMing, and his first campaign is made up of Shiro, Pidge, and Pidge’s school friends Lance and Hunk. Shiro’s character, Takashi Shirogane, has joined the adventuring party to carry out his oath to vanquish evil and search the country for the leviathan demon who killed his master. He’s also the best, coolest, and most fulfilling class: a paladin. The session is light-hearted and high-energy, and the lack of alcohol and weed means the whole party stays engaged. It’s a lot of fun, but some days Shiro feels like he’s only around to keep the kids from murdering each other over petty arguments.

Today is one of those days.

“You’ve just reached the village of Gid,” Matt narrates. “From what you can tell, it’s a small village with few resources. There are colorful banners set up along the main road advertising a spring festival, which is supposed to start tomorrow. The sun is setting, and the streets are nearly empty of people. What do you guys do?”

“Is there an inn we can rest at?” Pidge asks.

“I don’t know, is there?” Matt fires back.

Pidge sighs heavily. “Lance!”

Lance starts, nearly dropping his garlic knot. “Huh?”

“Roll a Gather Information check to see if there’s an inn we can stay at.”

“Why do I have to do it? Why can’t you do it?”

“Because I don’t have Knowledge (local) as a skill. I think you’re the only one who does.”

Lance grumbles but rolls his check. “Uhh…15.”

Matt raises an eyebrow. “Natural, or total?”

“Total! I know how to play this game, you guys don’t have to keep badgering me.”

Pidge huffs. “We could’ve just walked around and found this inn, Matt, it doesn’t make sense to make Lance roll for it.”

“Guysh,” Shiro admonishes through a mouthful of chips and salsa. “Lesh not,” he swallows, “let’s not argue over finding a place to stay for the night. There’ll plenty of time to argue during the rest of the session.”

Matt claps his hands. “Okay! So! Lance, you find out that there’s an inn at the village square—”

“Told you we could’ve found it just by walking around,” Pidge interjects.

“—And another one on the outskirts of the village. The village square inn is your standard place, takes a lot of travelers passing through to get to the City of Palantir. It’s run by an old woman named Honerva, and she’s seen it all. She probably has some entertaining stories to tell, as well as some information on quests you might be interested in. Lance, the people you talked to don’t know very much about the inn on the outskirts of town. All they—”

Pidge chuckles. “Ha. Someone didn’t roll high enough.”

Hunk takes a loud sip of his soda. “Yeah, but that means we should go check out this mysterious inn. I mean,” he fiddles with his d4, “outskirts of town, locals don’t know much about it, seems like the kinda place a band of adventurers like us could get down at.”

“I don’t know about that,” Pidge says. “It could just be some run-down place Matt’s only telling us about because he’s hoping we’ll go there instead of the place that we know we can get information from.” She shoots her brother a suspicious look.

Matt grins brightly back at her. “If you’ll let me finish, I have a few more details on the mysterious inn.”

“Go ahead,” Shiro prompts.

“Thank you, Shiro,” Matt says. “All the locals know about this inn is that it’s run by out-of-towners. The owner is a man named Alfor, and he runs the inn with his teenage daughter, Allura.”

Lance preemptively clamps a hand over Pidge’s mouth. “Then it’s settled. We’re going to the mysterious inn on the outskirts of tow- _eurgh_!” His hand is wet when he pulls it away. “Katie, gross!”

“Your hand is gross!”

“Your _mom_ is gross—”

“ _Guys_.” Shiro shares a look with Matt. “We’re here to rest. I’m sure Matt’s got something planned for us at the spring festival tomorrow, and it doesn’t really matter which inn we stay at.”

Pidge and Lance both open their mouths to speak.

Shiro holds up the hand that’s not holding a chip. “Okay. Okay. Let’s put it to a vote. All in favor of the village square inn, raise your hand.”

Pidge raises her hand, then glares at Hunk and Shiro. “Some friends _you_ are.”

“ _Ha!_ ” Lance pumps his fist in the air. “Suck on these nuts, Katie!”

“Don’t talk to my sister that way,” Matt says. “Okay, so you guys go to the mysterious inn on the outskirts of town. A young woman greets you. She looks human, or at least humanoid, you guys can’t really tell. She’s got brown skin and white hair, and these little pink markings under her eyes. She’s also got what looks like a longsword sheathed on her hip. Lance, you know from the information you gathered that this is Allura. She asks you how she can help you.”

Pidge, Hunk, and Lance all go to say something to Allura. Lance gets there first. “I seduce the lovely lady!”

Pidge groans. Matt smiles. “What do you say?”

Lance waggles his eyebrows. “Are you religious? ‘Cause you’re the answer to all my prayers.”

Matt’s glasses glint under the light. “Fine. Roll a Charisma check.”

“Easy peasy.” Lance rolls. His face falls. “Shit. Natural 1, so…3.”

Matt’s face breaks into a bright grin. “Great! You’ve seriously offended her. She draws her sword. It begins to crackle with electricity. Roll for initiative.”

“Huh?”

“You heard me. Roll for initiative.”

Hunk wipes his garlicky hands on his napkin and grabs his d20. “The whole party?”

“Nope,” Matt says, grinning like a Cheshire cat, “just Lance this round. The rest of you will roll to insert yourselves into the combat order next round.”

Allura gets the first hit in. She’s surprisingly strong for a character who’s supposed to be an innkeeper’s daughter. Shiro suspects Matt was going to use the opponent Allura’s stats are from at a different spot in the story once the party had leveled, but he wanted to punish Lance, either for automatically going after every potentially-romanceable woman he came across or for telling Pidge to suck his nuts.

Lance’s rapier attack misses. “How high is her AC?” Lance protests, and receives only a smile in response.

The rest of the team rolls for initiative. Shiro’s last in the combat order. Allura gets another devastating hit in on Lance with her shocking sword. Hunk is next, and he heals Lance up to 30 percent of his health. Lance’s next attack misses again, and Pidge’s axe swing hits but she rolls low on damage. Shiro’s the last thing standing between Lance and another one of Allura’s shocking sword attacks. He uses his whole turn to move from the back of the party all the way to the front, so he’s blocking Lance from Allura’s attacks.

“O- _kay_ ,” Matt says, “so Allura’s trying to go for Lance, but Shiro you’re in the way so she’s going to hit you instead. She swings at you with her longsword, with a…” Natural 20. “Oof. Okay, so she crits. Her sword comes down in a flash of electricity, and when it hits you, it delivers an extra shocking burst. She does,” Matt rolls three dice, wincing as each die lands high, “32 damage.”

Shiro looks at his character sheet. “I’m…that kills me,” he says forlornly. “I’m dead.”

“Shiro! What the hell!” Lance shouts.

“I was already low on health from the band of thieves we fought before we showed up in town,” Shiro says.

“You’re unconscious,” Hunk says, “right? You’re not dead? You’re just unconscious-dead, right, you’re not, like, dead-dead?”

Shiro sighs. “I’m dead-dead.”

“Sorry, Shiro,” Matt says. “I didn’t think she’d crit, and I didn’t realize you were so low on health. All right, so it’s Allura’s turn. Allura sees Shiro go down. Her sword stops crackling, and she sheathes it. Do you guys stop fighting?”

Pidge kneels up on her chair. “No, she killed Shiro!”

Hunk pulls Pidge back to a sitting position. “Let’s think about this. Allura’s obviously really strong, we’re low on health, I’m almost out of healing spells, and we don’t want to die here. If she’s not fighting anymore, I say we don’t fight anymore.”

“I’m with Hunk on this one,” Lance says, shaking his head. “I haven’t been able to land a hit.”

Pidge pouts. “Fine. We stop fighting.”

Shiro stares dejectedly down at his character sheet. His characters are always so noble and self-sacrificing that it feels like he rolls a new one every other week. The life of a paladin is so rough.

Matt looks around the table. “Allura explains that Lance, and by association the entire party, has grievously offended her with his irreverent speech about her religion. In her culture, such offenses are righted by combat, though…not…to the death. Her people are far hardier than humans, and she did not expect to kill Shiro.” He gives Shiro a sympathetic look. “Sorry.”

“She could’ve used non-lethal damage,” Shiro mutters.

“As a gesture of apology for killing your friend,” Matt continues, “Allura says she’ll give you free rooms for the night, and she’ll hook you up with a bunch of healing potions and, uh, also some cool magical items, because she and her father have a bunch of those and that’s what I had planned for you to figure out.”

The team blink at each other.

“Sounds good,” says Pidge.

“Sweet,” says Hunk.

“All right!” says Lance.

“I want to be a paladin again,” says Shiro.

Everyone groans.

* * *

The team declares a “No Lawful Good” house rule. Shiro spends the rest of the session rolling his new character, whom Matt will plant somewhere in the village to be introduced to the party next time. It’s around 5:30 when Matt wraps up the session so the kids can get home in time for dinner. They pile into Lance’s old beat-up blue Camry and drive off, Pidge waving wildly from the back seat. Matt waves back until the car disappears from view.

Matt turns to Shiro. “Let’s have a beer.”

They settle onto Matt’s couch with their drinks. Matt flips through Netflix to find something to put on in the background. He always does this when they have one-on-one conversations. Pidge does it too. Shiro doesn’t know why, but he’s never asked about it. He just assumes it’s one of those Holt Things that make perfect sense to Matt and Pidge and no one else.

“Katie looks good with the pixie cut,” Shiro says. “When she said she was going to cut it, I was afraid she’d get it done to look like yours.”

Matt selects a show that looks appropriately non-intrusive and plays it from the beginning, the volume turned down so it’s audible but not intelligible. “Hey, my hair looks good.”

“Your hair looks great. That’s not the point.” Shiro sips his beer. “She’d look like a mini you.”

“And _I_ look great, so I don’t see what’s wrong with that.” Matt opens his beer with a loud pop and chugs a third of it in one go. “I’m kidding,” he says, “I totally see what’s wrong with that and agree with you wholeheartedly.”

Shiro smiles. “She really looks up to you, Matt.” He sinks further into the couch. “Honestly, with your family being so supportive and so close, I don’t understand why you live alone. I’d kill a man for a family like yours.”

Matt laughs. “They are pretty great,” he says. “I moved out because I wanted, I don’t know, space. Independence. But I have thought about moving back. I get lonely sometimes, without them.” He takes another long sip of beer, eyes trained on the television. “My life is so much different from my family’s, though. I spend a lot of my time in a drug-fueled fantasy playland for rich people, I catch myself being so superficial sometimes, after bad nights I pace around for hours ranting to myself about shitty customers…” He sighs and turns to Shiro. “I want to keep Pidge away from all that. I don’t want her to look at my life and think it’s worth glorifying. Or worse, that it’s _normal_.”

Shiro blinks back his surprise. “You’re worried she’s going to want to be a stripper?”

“No, it’s just,” Matt runs a hand through his hair, “I know she doesn’t want to be a stripper. I’m just worried she’s going to think the late nights, the drugs, everything, are…cool. Or the way life’s supposed to be lived, or something.”

“She’ll go to college soon enough,” Shiro points out. “And when she does, she’ll be living in a drug-fueled playland for 18-to-24-year-olds, many of whom are completely convinced that life is meant to be lived at night, on a constant bender.”

Matt gives Shiro a blank look and downs the rest of his beer. “I know,” he says. “But she’s not in college now. She’s fifteen. I don’t want to be the reason she’s exposed to all this stuff early.” He gets up and heads for the fridge. “I’m getting another beer, you want one?”

Shiro holds up his mostly-full can. “I’m good for now. Sounds like you’ve done a lot of thinking about this.”

Matt sits back down and cracks open his second beer. “I have. Pidge is so important to me. I want to always do what’s best for her.”

The TV plays softly in the lapse of conversation that follows. Shiro studies Matt. He’s hunched over with his elbows on his knees, staring down into the beer he holds in his right hand with a small smile on his face. The evening sun bathes him in a soft light and illuminates his features. He looks content, yet somehow still melancholy.

“You’re a good brother,” Shiro says softly. “Pidge is lucky to have a role model like you.”

“Thanks, Shiro,” Matt says. He shifts his sitting position so he’s facing Shiro with one leg curled under him, and the energy in the room changes. “Speaking of role models.”

Shiro takes a long sip from his can. “Hm,” he says.

Matt takes Shiro’s beer from him and shakes it. “There’s still so much in here,” he says. “This is your first beer! I’m almost done with my second. Keep up, Shiro.”

Shiro swallows his mouthful of beer. “We’re not getting drunk, are we?”

Matt shrugs. “Don’t see why not. You got anywhere to be later?”

“No…”

Matt hops up off the couch and grabs two more beers. He sets them down on his coffee table with a triumphant _thunk_. “Great! Then we’re getting drunk and talking about Dallas tonight.” He sinks back into the couch and props his feet up on the coffee table. “So. Spill.”

Shiro finishes his first beer and opens his second. Strangely, he can feel his body trying to turn away from Matt. “I don’t know what there is to spill.”

“Other than the fact that he’s completely latched onto you, and he follows you around everywhere, and you let him, and you’re helping him make money, and you’ve basically adopted him as your stripper son?”

“He’s got potential,” Shiro argues. “He has some issues talking to people, and he doesn’t really believe in himself yet, but he’s a good hustler. In the past couple weeks, he’s gone from being rude, antisocial, and broke to making more money than he thought possible. If he needed a little help to get there, so what? We all need help sometimes.”

Matt purses his lips. “Well,” he says, “he’s not out of the woods yet with the ‘rude’ and ‘antisocial’ bits.”

“What do you mean?” Shiro asks, and immediately feels guilt pool dark and slick in his guts. They’re gossiping about Keith. That’s why he feels bad about this conversation.

Matt’s halfway done with his third beer. He gestures at Shiro’s yet-untouched second. “The only dancer he gets along with is you. Well, and sometimes me, but that’s only because I’m your friend. Dallas isn’t well-liked in the dressing room. A couple of guys have flat-out told me they’ve got a problem with him.” He narrows his eyes at Shiro. “And everyone’s seen you doting on him. If you’re not careful, that problem will extend to you as well.”

Shiro picks up his beer but doesn’t sip it. The TV plays on in the background, ambient movement and noise keeping him from getting completely lost in his thoughts as he processes. Half of him doesn’t believe Matt. Shiro’s been at this club long enough to get a reputation. He’s responsible and reliable. He mediates conflicts between dancers, and between dancers and management. He’s not stingy with his hair gel, baby wipes, body spray, or Advil. Dancers and management alike trust Shiro with everything. Could one friendship really break that trust?

The other half of Shiro knows Matt’s telling the truth. Shiro felt it himself in his first interactions with Keith. Keith is argumentative, combative, explosive when he feels insecure. Shiro’s a patient and understanding person, and even he wouldn’t have put up with Keith for longer than a few days if he hadn’t felt there was more to him than met the eye. It’s understood in the dressing room that like attracts like. Cokeheads hang out with cokeheads, extras boys hang out with extras boys. And if Shiro’s buddying up to someone who’s done little but cause problems, Shiro’s reputation could tank.

But Shiro _knows_ Keith is more than the hurricane of anger and insecurity the other dancers see. Shiro’s seen it in the graceful lines of his body during his stage sets, in the spark in his eye when he learns a new pole trick. Shiro’s seen it in Keith’s willingness to learn, and in his work ethic. Shiro’s seen it in the way Keith looked at him in the dressing room on that first good night, eyes shining with wonder and respect. Keith’s a good kid. With the right guidance, he’ll be a good coworker too.

“I don’t care,” Shiro declares. He drinks his beer down until half the can is gone. The TV show is buffering, and the silence it leaves feels like too much. “I believe in Dallas. Someday, the rest of you will believe in him too.”

Matt contemplates this for a moment. “You really have adopted him, haven’t you. I was joking about him being your stripper son, but he really is, isn’t he.”

“Yeah,” Shiro says, “he pretty much is.”

* * *

Wednesday is one of those nights where the hours feel like molasses. The club has maybe seen ten customers all night, but the manager isn’t letting dancers leave yet. Matt’s Shiro’s usual complaining partner, but Matt’s not working tonight. Shiro’s shoulder is bugging him, so he can’t join the small group practicing pole tricks on the side stage. He’s closed and reopened his social media apps so many times he could paint his Instagram feed from memory. He’s eaten enough house mom snacks to total the calories of a full meal. Shiro’s so bored he’s contemplating buying his own drinks just to have something to pass the time with.

“Hey,” comes a voice at his shoulder. “Can I bum a cig?”

Shiro turns around. “Dallas, hey.” He frowns. “You don’t smoke.”

Keith shrugs. “Sounded better than ‘let’s go stand outside for ten minutes.’”

“That’s fair.” Shiro grabs his cigarettes and his hoodie from his locker, and they head out to the smoking patio.

It’s a cool, clear night. Shiro finds himself staring up at the stars as he breathes in the crisp, fresh air. On nights like tonight, smoking is less a habit and more a breathing ritual. Shiro inhales deep and exhales slow, feeling the restlessness seep out of his bones and give way to calm.

Keith places a hand on Shiro’s shoulder. “Feeling better?”

“Much,” Shiro says. “How’d you know I was feeling weird?”

Too soon, Keith moves his hand away. “Pacing around the dressing room, snacking like crazy, getting up from one couch just to move to another one…”

“I didn’t even notice I was doing some of that. You’re observant.”

Keith gives Shiro a small smile. “I pay attention.”

Shiro puts out his cigarette and looks back up at the sky, wondering if he should breach the subject he wants to. He decides to go for it. “Then you must pay attention to what the other dancers think of you.”

Keith sets his shoulders. His smile disappears. “Doesn’t matter what the others think of me.”

“It does,” Shiro says. “Dallas, there are people here whose bad side you don’t want to be on.”

“Let them fuck with me. I can take it.”

Shiro frowns. “I don’t doubt that, but you’ll be a lot happier here if you get along with the others. You don’t have to like them, or trust them—there are plenty of people here who I don’t trust—but you’ve got to be nice to them anyway.”

Keith looks down and toes at the pavement. “I guess. I’m just not…really used to that.”

“Being nice to people?”

“Yeah.” Keith hunches in on himself. “Well, being nice to people I don’t trust.”

“You’re nice to me.”

Keith looks up at Shiro through his eyelashes. “Yeah, well,” he says, “I…yeah.”

Keith’s small smile returns. Shiro grins back, warmth flooding his chest.

* * *

Something is off when they get back to the dressing room. There’s been a shift in the air. The atmosphere is strained, even though Shiro and Keith are the only ones in the room.

Keith’s the first to notice why. “Champion, your locker.”

Shiro looks at his locker. “Uh oh.” Some sort of dark liquid drips down the door, pooling on the floor below.

Keith runs to the sink. He grabs a handful of paper towels, wets them, and hands them to Shiro. “Here. What is it?”

“Smells like soda. Someone must’ve spilled some on my locker.” Shiro wipes down the door and his lock, and starts running the combination to check on his stuff. On closer inspection, it looks like some of the liquid has been dripping out of the bottom of the locker. “I think some of it got inside.” He opens his locker. “Oh, no.” Everything in the front of his locker is damp and sticky, and the corner of his bag is soaked in the puddle of soda that slowly drips out onto the floor. The sight is unnerving.

Even more unnerving is the energy Shiro can sense radiating from Keith. Keith’s standing behind him, out of view, but Shiro can feel his anger mounting with every breath. “Nobody _spilled_ soda _on_ your locker,” Keith hisses. “Someone _poured_ soda _in_ there.”

Shiro takes a few deep breaths as it hits him. Matt was right. Whoever has a problem with Keith now has a problem with Shiro too. Nobody’s ever done anything like this to him before. He’s never given anyone a reason to.

Keith’s hand on Shiro’s shoulder is too harsh to be comforting. “Let me clean this up.” His voice is steady but strained. He stands. “I’ll get more paper towels. We’re gonna find out who did this.”

“No, I—” Shiro pulls his bag out of his locker, inadvertently dragging it through the soda puddle. He pats down his locker’s contents and throws anything sticky into his bag. “I don’t want to cause more trouble. I should just go home and get all this washed. Shit, my clothes are covered in soda.” Shiro’s thankful he’s at least wearing his hoodie.

Keith comes back over with two handfuls of paper towels. “Do what you need to.” His voice has softened, but his energy is still uncomfortably dark. “Don’t worry about your locker. I’ll take care of things here.”

“Okay,” Shiro says, “okay.” He holds his bag in the crook of his elbow so he doesn’t smear soda all over his side. “I’ll see you Friday?”

Keith doesn’t respond.

* * *

Shiro’s feeling much better when he and Matt walk in together on Friday. Even if the other dancers aren’t happy with Shiro right now, Matt’s got his back, Keith’s got his back, and if he needs to get management involved, they will have his back as well.

His mood lifts even more when he opens his locker. Keith not only wiped the whole thing down, he took Shiro’s jumbled mess of hair products and body sprays and makeup and thongs and organized them neatly. The locker looks far better now than it did pre-vandalism.

Shiro looks around for Keith. He usually comes in at open, but his bag isn’t on the counter where it should be.

“Maybe he’s just late,” Shiro mumbles to himself.

“What’s that?” Matt asks.

“Nothing.”

Shiro takes his time getting ready, but Keith doesn’t show.

By 9:30, he’s starting to get antsy. It’s not like Keith to miss a Friday. Shiro still doesn’t have Keith’s phone number—he hasn’t asked, and Keith hasn’t offered—but he wishes he did, so that he could check in.

The other dancers wouldn’t know or care why Keith isn’t at work, so Shiro doesn’t bother asking any of them. Chances are good that management wouldn’t know anything either. Keith’s been fairly communicative with the house mom, though, so Shiro finds himself in her office, stress snacking on salt and vinegar chips.

Mom looks surprised he’s asking after Keith. “I suppose no one told you,” she muses. “Dallas’s contract was terminated on Wednesday.”

Shiro stops mid-chew. “What?” he asks. “Why?”

Mom purses her lips. “I’m not too sure what exactly the situation was, but it seems he started a fight with another dancer over some spilled soda in the locker room.”

 Shiro’s stomach drops. “He didn’t.” He couldn’t have. How could Keith have gotten in a fight? He cleaned and organized Shiro’s locker. Why would he have done that and _then_ gone off and fought somebody?

“I’m sorry, Champion,” Mom says, not looking all that sorry. “I know the two of you were friends, but we can’t tolerate that kind of behavior here.”

Shiro’s mind races. It seems he and Keith are the only ones who know what really happened that made Keith start that fight. Keith shouldn’t have tried to settle the matter with his fists, but whoever explained the situation to management made it sound as though Keith blew up over nothing. It wasn’t nothing. Someone took their problem with Keith out on Shiro, and Keith felt responsible for defending him.

There’s still a chance that Shiro can save this situation. Even if he’s lost favor among the dancers, he still holds a certain amount of clout with management. The managers trust him. It may be a long shot, but if he explains what actually happened, maybe the club will let Keith come back.

Shiro sets his jaw. “I need to talk to Mitch.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _must be love on the brain_  
>  _that's got me feeling this way_  
>  Rihanna, _Love On The Brain (Don Diablo Remix)_
> 
> It is so difficult to find songs for these first few chapters. I guess this fic just isn't strippery enough yet *shrug emoji*


	4. Seven Nation Army

“That’s not how the other dancers tell it. According to them, there was some soda spilled on the counter in the dressing room, and Dallas threw a fit about it and attacked another dancer.”

Shiro puts on his best kiss-ass pleading expression despite his mounting frustration. “Sir, they’re trying to protect the person who started it. Someone vandalized my locker, like I just told you.”

Mitch, the manager on duty, looks unimpressed. “So why didn’t you come tell me all this on the night it happened? Why wait until your friend got fired to give me your story?”

Shiro exhales slowly. He has to keep his calm, or he’ll lose the believability he’s so studiously built up during his time at this club. “I didn’t want to cause more problems with the other dancers. I thought if I told you, I’d face worse harassment from them. Also, I was upset, and I didn’t want you or anyone else to see me that way. I like to think I’m usually pretty level-headed, but I wasn’t that night.”

Mitch purses his lips together. “Do you have any witnesses? Anyone who can corroborate your story?”

Shiro shakes his head. “It was just me and Dallas in the dressing room, and we cleaned it up pretty fast. I don’t think anyone else saw. Oh, but,” he pulls his phone from his money bag, “I texted Chip about it on my way home that night. If that helps.” He pulls up his text conversation with Matt and hands Mitch his phone.

Mitch scrolls through the texts, pursing his lips. “It’s times like these I wish we had cameras in the locker room,” he says, and Shiro breathes a quiet sigh of relief. He’s believed. “Next time, don’t clean it up before you come to me or Mom.”

“Right,” Shiro replies, hoping there won’t be a next time. “So…can Dallas come back?”

Mitch fixes Shiro with a hard look. “Whether he was provoked or not, Dallas still started a physical fight with another dancer. We’ve fired boys for a lot less.”

Shiro’s heart sinks. He knew it was a long shot, but at least he tried. “I understand.” He wishes he’d gotten Dallas’s phone number, or his email address, or some way to keep in contact with him. It’s not fair to either of them that their last interaction was what it was. He knows Mom and the managers have Dallas’s contact information, but getting it from them would be creepy…

A heavy sigh shakes Shiro from his thoughts. “At the same time,” Mitch says, “I know you’re responsible. I’ve never had any problems from you. Mom told me you’ve been mentoring Dallas since he started here. If you’re vouching for him—”

“I am, sir,” Shiro cuts in, hope rising in his chest.

“Then I’m inclined to offer to re-contract him.”

Shiro grins. “Really?”

Mitch frowns. “If he wants to come back.” He looks Shiro dead in the eyes. “But if Dallas comes back, all of his actions will reflect on you. The only reason I’m even considering rehiring him is because you’re vouching for him. This better not happen again.”

“It won’t, sir. I’ll make sure of it.”

“If it does, you’re both fired.”

“Understood, sir.”

Shiro all but tears out of the manager’s office and bounces around the busy club looking for Mom. He finds her in the dressing room, collecting trash and empty glasses off the counter.

“Mom,” he forces out, thoughts swirling around in his head. “You- I- can you- I don’t have—”

“Slow down, Champion,” Mom says. “You can only say one thing at a time.”

Shiro inhales. “Mitch said he’ll hire Dallas back. He could come in tomorrow. I don’t have his phone number. Could you call him, please?”

Mom hums as she continues down the counter, stacking glasses. “You certainly work fast,” she says. “Let me get these to the bar and then I’ll call him.”

“Okay, thank you—”

“You will have to talk to him, because I only know what you’ve told me just now,” Mom says. “Wait here, and we’ll call him from my office.”

“Got it,” Shiro says, “okay. I’m waiting here.”

Mom gives Shiro an appraising look, goes to say something, decides not to, and leaves the dressing room with her stack of glasses and small bag of trash. Shiro thinks he knows what she was going to say. It’s busy tonight. Shiro’s been slacking off since 9:30. He could be out on the floor making money, but instead he’s been booking it between offices, advocating for a dancer that most people at this club aren’t too fond of. In the past, Shiro’s gone to some lengths to ensure new dancers’ success, but he’s never, ever begged Mitch to rehire someone who washed out. Shiro’s holding on to Keith when he would have cut ties with anyone else, and it’s making management nervous. They don’t know if Shiro is a good influence on Keith, or if Keith is a bad influence on Shiro, and they’re going to be watching both of them closely until they decide which it is.

That’s fine with Shiro. Keith will use his second chance to prove himself. Shiro’s sure of it.

Mom returns and leads Shiro into her office. She dials Keith’s number, still giving Shiro that odd expression from before.

Keith’s phone rings once. Twice. Three times.

He picks up in the middle of the fourth ring. “M-Ms. Eva?”

“Dallas. It’s me.”

“Sh- Champion?”

Shiro smiles at Dallas’s confused tone. “Dallas, listen. Can you work tomorrow?”

Silence, then a frustrated, “No. Champion, I got—”

“Mom told me what happened. I mean, are you free tomorrow. To work. To come back to work. I talked to Mitch and explained the whole story, and he’s willing to rehire you.”

“I—” Dallas sounds stunned on the other end of the line. “Champion, what the _hell_?”

Shiro blinks back his surprise at Dallas’s tone. “What?”

Dallas’s confusion has turned to aggravation. “Look, I know I fucked up. I deserved to get fired. You shouldn’t keep trying to save me from my own mistakes, it’s just going to bring you down with me.”

Suddenly, Shiro sees the situation for what it is. Keith’s trying to distance himself, _again_. The realization makes Shiro even more sure he’s doing the right thing by pulling Keith back. “You said you’d come through for me, and you did. That means a lot to me.”

“Yeah, and I got _fired_. Just let me fail already. I’m not cut out for dancing. The club isn’t for me.”

Shiro wishes he were having this conversation with Dallas in person. Instead, he feels like Dallas has forced the distance between them to be physical as well as emotional. It won’t prevent Shiro from pushing forward. “You _are_ cut out for dancing,” Shiro says. “In the time I’ve known you, you’ve proven yourself to be a great dancer and a great hustler. You’ve learned so much in so little time that I know you haven’t even begun to reach your full potential.” He pauses to take a breath. Keith doesn’t cut in. Shiro takes that as a good sign. “Dallas, you can do this. I won’t give up on you. But more importantly, you can’t give up on yourself.”

The silence on the other end of the line stretches out so long that Shiro checks to make sure Keith hasn’t hung up on him. The call is still live, seconds ticking by, but Keith says nothing.

Shiro doesn’t know if that’s good or bad. He resolves to take it as good. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says, and ends the call. “Thank you,” he says to Mom.

“He’s going to come back?” Mom asks.

“He is,” Shiro says with conviction. He really hopes he’s right.

* * *

Shiro comes in the next night to find a familiar bag on the counter by his locker.

* * *

Shiro’s happy to have Keith back. He is the only one. Even Matt looks unnerved to see Keith in the dressing room.

Shiro doesn’t blame him. Over the past few shifts, it’s become increasingly clear that anyone with a problem with Keith has a problem with Shiro now, too, and Matt’s doing what he needs to do to keep himself out of the situation.

The situation is not good, and it’s getting worse. The soda incident has been replicated on Keith’s bag, someone’s tried to break into Shiro’s locker, the other dancers talk shit about Shiro and Keith to the customers, and amid all this, management is content to sit back and let Shiro and Keith get forced out. That’s to be expected. The managers don’t have any reason to like Keith, and Shiro used up all his sway with them just getting Keith back on the roster.

_“That’s Champion finishing up his second and final song on main, and Dallas finishing up his final song on satellite. Thank you, Champion and Dallas. We’ve got new entertainers coming up for you. Let’s welcome Antonio to satellite stage, and coming to main stage, here’s Diesel!”_

Shiro comes back from his stage set to find that the customer he’d been about to take into a room is now sitting with another dancer. He debates letting it go, but he’s let a lot go this past week, and there’s only so much he’s willing to walk away from.

He catches his customer’s eye and smiles, testing the waters. The customer smiles back. It’s the cue he needs. Shiro makes his way across the main floor, continuing to eye-flirt with the man even as the other dancer notices what’s going on and gives Shiro a murderous glare.

“Hey, babe,” Shiro greets as sweetly as he can manage. “Miss me?”

“You looked amazing on stage, Champion,” the customer—fuck, now Shiro’s forgotten his name—says. “Do you need a moment, or are you ready to go back?”

Score. “I’m ready now,” Shiro says. “Are we bringing Chase with us?” He bats his eyes at, uh…Roger? Robert? Shit.

“Just you,” Richard—Richard!—says. “Thanks for keeping me company, honey,” he says to Chase. “Maybe next time.”

Shiro takes his customer by the hand and leads him away before Chase can even ask for a tip. He’s probably earned himself some dressing room shenanigans later on, but for now, he’s got his money and that’s what he’s here for anyway. Maybe it’s ungracious to think _ha ha, bitch_ about another dancer who didn’t make any money off of a customer, but.

Ha ha. Bitch.

When Shiro returns from the room, he heads straight for the dressing room. He seems to be wrong about the shenanigans because it doesn’t look like his stuff has been tampered with. He opens his locker and checks inside just to be sure. Clean, dry chaos, just like always. The organization system Keith implemented in Shiro’s locker lasted all of two shifts before Shiro caved and resumed just throwing things in there.

Speaking of Keith, Shiro checks his bag too. It looks and feels fine. Somehow, this doesn’t make Shiro feel better. It does make him feel like he needs a cigarette, so he grabs his pack, shrugs his hoodie on, and heads for the smoking patio.

Outside on the patio, Chase and another dancer are having a huddled conversation with Keith. There are enough people outside that none of the trio seems to notice Shiro, so he closes the door as quietly as he can and tries to listen in.

“—to say I’m sorry for all that,” Keith is saying. “I’m not asking ——, but —— Champion out of it?”

Chase responds in a low tone that Shiro doesn’t catch any of, and Keith makes a frustrated noise in response. Chase and the other dancer laugh.

“—fuck up again eventually,” the other dancer says. “We can wait for it.”

Shiro heads back inside. He can smoke later.

He intercepts Keith when he comes back in. “Dallas.”

“Oh,” Keith says, “Champion.” He looks around. “Can we talk? In private?”

“I don’t think there is anywhere private,” Shiro says. “We could text?”

Keith nods and pulls out his phone. “I forgot I still don’t have your number. Here.” He hands Shiro his phone.

Shiro inputs his number and presses the call button. “There.”

Keith smiles. “Thanks.” He starts typing.

Shiro gets a text. _chase and the others want me to get in another fight_

 _Why?_ Shiro asks. He edits Keith’s contact name so it reads ‘Dallas Stargazers’. He wishes he could use Keith’s real name, but he’s afraid of another dancer getting hold of his phone.

_they want to watch me get fired again_

_That won’t happen. You won’t get in another fight._

Keith purses his lips. _no_

_Good._

Keith shakes his head at the single word and keeps typing. _theyre going after you too and i hate that. they used to like you shiro. now theyre all out to get you and its my fault_

 _I can handle myself,_ Shiro responds. _Don’t worry about me. Focus on you._

 _idk how to deal with this tho,_ Keith writes. _i said sorry and they laughed. so im done kissing ass. i dont wanna fight them but i also dont wanna look weak_

“Ignore them,” Shiro says aloud. “To the best of your ability, ignore them. See if you can put them in a position where they’re harassing you in a place where a manager or Mom can witness it. If you can’t, then just come in, make your money, and leave.”

Keith sighs. “I…don’t know if I can do this.”

Shiro lays a hand on Keith’s shoulder. “I’m sorry for putting you in this position,” he says. “There are other clubs that will hire you if you want to quit. But know that while you’re here, I’ve got your back.”

Keith puts his hand on top of Shiro’s. “I know, Champion,” he says. “You don’t know how much that means to me.” He looks at the floor. “I’m not quitting. But no guarantee that I won’t get fired.”

“If you do,” Shiro says, “we can check out the other clubs together.”

“What?” Keith asks.

Shiro gives Keith a sheepish smile. “I didn’t mention this to you before, but. Mitch told me that if you get fired, I get fired.”

Keith reels back. “Champion, what?” He stares at Shiro in wide-eyed shock for a second, then a disbelieving grin breaks over his face. “You really do believe in me,” he says.

“Either that or I’m just itching to get out of here and need a good excuse to do it,” Shiro jokes. “Of course I believe in you, Dallas. Do you believe in yourself?”

A light pans over Keith’s face. For a split second, his pink cheeks are perfectly lit up. “I think I’m starting to.”

* * *

Shiro heads downtown on Monday to get lunch with Keith. Downtown isn’t his favorite place to be on his days off, but it’s convenient for Keith, who’s driving in from one of the suburbs. It’s nice to finally see Keith outside work, especially with the fraught atmosphere of the dressing room lately. Shiro realizes that for all he and Keith have become close work friends, they still don’t know each other all that well. So, they sit outside at a café, take in the fresh spring air, and talk.

“I’m kind of a nature freak,” Keith says. “It’s a dream of mine to one day run away to somewhere with no people, maybe head out to Arizona, get a place where the yard runs into the desert, you know, like all you can see for miles is land and sky, go exploring every day, hang out with snakes and rabbits and lizards, let all this,” he gestures at the city street, “just…fall away.”

“That sounds nice,” Shiro says. “Sometimes I have these fantasies of living on the beach. Not in, I don’t know, Hawaii or Miami or wherever, but somewhere cold and kind of harsh. I grew up clam digging,” he explains, “and my father and grandfather used to dive for abalone. I’m probably remembering that part of my childhood without all the things that made it miserable, but the wind and fog and salt call to me sometimes.”

Keith’s face takes on an odd expression. “You, uh,” he says, “are you close with your family?”

Shiro realizes what he’s said and winces. “I used to be,” he explains. “They…disowned me, when I came out.”

“That’s fucked up,” Keith says.

Shiro shrugs. “It is what it is.” It sounds hollow, and in some ways it is. The loss of his family is a bone-deep ache that persists, still, always. But this is the only way Shiro’s ever been able to describe the situation that feels genuine. He will only ever be himself. His parents will only ever be themselves.

There’s an awkward pause. Then Keith offers Shiro a hesitant smile. “Guess we’re both looking for something only nature can give us."

Shiro smiles back. “I guess so,” he says. He sighs. “I feel like I’ve been steeped in city life too long. I need a break. Maybe a week-long camping trip, or at least a weekend trip somewhere.”

Keith swirls his straw around in his soda, looking pensive. “It’s not really a trip,” he starts slowly, “but there’s some good hiking up in the hills by my place. It’s where I usually am on Sundays. You should come, if you want.”

Shiro feels his smile widen, just short of ecstatic that Keith’s inviting him out. “I’d love to go hiking with you,” he says, “but, ah, it would have to be another day. My Sundays are booked up.” Shiro’s hand finds the base of his neck. “I play D&D with Chip and some friends.”

“D&D,” Keith repeats. “Dungeons and Dragons?”

Shiro flushes. His shoulders instinctively tense up. “Uh,” he says, “yeah. It’s pretty nerdy, I know.”

Keith’s answering smile is neither mocking nor indulgent. “That’s cool,” he says in earnest. “I’ve never played tabletop before, but I used to be really into RPGs. D&D sounds fun.”

“It is!” Shiro relaxes back into his seat. “I first got into it when I was in college. I was playing a lot of Fire Emblem back then, and then one of my fraternity brothers started DMing a campaign—”

“Wait,” Keith interrupts, frowning. “Shiro. You went to college?”

“Uh, yeah?”

“What’d you study?”

“Physics.”

“You graduate?”

Shiro frowns. “Yes?”

Keith scowls. “What the hell are you doing stripping?”

Shiro crosses his arms. “I enjoy it, it fits my sleep schedule, it gives me a lot of free time, and I like money.”

“Shiro, you could be making so much money. You have a degree. You could be doing _anything_.”

“I don’t want to do _anything_ ,” Shiro argues, “I’ll go to grad school eventually, but I like where I’m at in life right now.”

Keith shakes his head, visibly distressed. “I can’t believe you,” he says. “You could be out there doing great things, and instead you’re doing… _this_.”

“Keith, I don’t need the lecture,” Shiro says, body tensing like he’s gearing up for a fight. “I’d expect it from someone who’s not in the industry, but I really don’t need it from you.”

Keith huffs and looks away. “Sorry,” he says. “It’s just- I don’t- I can’t imagine having a degree and not using it. If I could go to college…”

“Keith, you can. I’m sure of it. You’re smart, you’re a hard worker, you—”

“No, Shiro,” Keith says. “I can’t.” He pauses. “I didn’t graduate high school.”

“Oh,” Shiro says, looking down at the table.

Keith continues. “My junior year, I got expelled for fighting. By that point, I didn’t legally need to be in school anymore, so I just…started working.” He looks down. “I kind of bounced around from job to job. I couldn’t support myself, so it was either strip or join the military.”

Shiro shifts in his seat. This conversation has become an uncomfortable reminder of his own privilege. Shiro strips because he wants to. Keith strips because he has to. Shiro has known that since the beginning, but he still forgets it sometimes. He feels like an asshole for getting upset. “Keith,” he says.

“No,” Keith says, folding in on himself. “Shiro. You’re right. I’m sure you’ve been lectured enough about ‘wasting your potential’ and shit.” He looks up, a wry smile on his face. “I get it. I’m sorry.”

Keith looks like he wants to say more. Shiro waits.

“I got that lecture a lot in school,” Keith goes on, picking up a fry and smearing it around in his ketchup. “I know I’m smart, but I just couldn’t do classes. They were so boring, and the teachers were so condescending, and the other kids were so annoying. I was always in detention for mouthing off, or ditching, or something. People were always trying to ‘help’ me with my ‘attitude problem’, but it was really just punishment with a different name. Every time they had a chance to actually _help_ me, they disappeared. They…left.” Keith’s fry has turned into a soggy, mushy mess. He looks down at it, then up at Shiro. “Sorry,” he says, dropping his gaze again. “I’m sorry. I know I’m ranting. I don’t mean to. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Shiro says. He feels within his softness for Keith a cold hardness for the adults in Keith’s life who raised him to be so volatile and yet so apologetic. “You don’t have to apologize for talking about yourself. It’s not a bad thing.”

Keith’s stares down at his plate with an expression that’s almost pained. He drops his demolished fry and picks up a fresh one to methodically drown in ketchup. “Just- what I’m saying is,” he says, “my whole life, everyone’s given up on me.” He looks tentatively up at Shiro. “Except you. You’re the only one who hasn’t.”

Shiro wonders if there’s an unspoken _yet_ hanging in the air between them. “I won’t,” he says, in case there is.

Keith goes through a number of breaths and facial expressions before he responds. “I know, Shiro,” he says finally, and the weight of it settles over Shiro like a blanket.

Neither of them has anything more to say, so they finish their lunch in companionable silence. Keith exhales deeply and leans back in his chair, sipping his soda and basking in the spring sun. Shiro thinks it’s the most comfortable he’s ever seen Keith. He thinks he’d like to see Keith like this as often as he can.

* * *

“Can you tie this for me?”

Shiro’s trying a new outfit on for tonight. The top ties on like a bikini, with strings around his neck and back. Tying it on right, keeping all strings the same length without twisting anything around, is proving more annoying than it’s worth.

Keith stops rummaging around in his bag and looks up. “Sure,” he says, “if you can return the favor.” He holds up a black leather choker.

“No problem.” Shiro turns around so his back is to Keith.

Keith’s fingers are smooth and a little chilly as they pluck the top strings from Shiro’s grasp. “Let me straighten these out,” Keith murmurs. His hands brush lightly against Shiro’s skin as he untwists first one string and then the other. Keith deftly ties the strings and runs his fingers over the lines that now lie flat from Shiro’s chest to the nape of his neck. Shiro shivers a little at the touch.

Then Keith moves on to the bottom strings. He grabs them from where they hang in front of Shiro and adjusts them so they’re equal length. “Do you want these looped through your bottoms?”

Shiro thinks of Keith’s fingers pulling the strings through the waistband of Shiro’s thong, brushing against his hipbones, pulling tight enough to twist the waistband and then re-flattening it against Shiro’s skin. “No,” he says. “Just normal is fine.”

Keith loops the strings and pulls until the top is snug around Shiro’s chest. “Tighter?”

“A little bit.”

Keith pulls a little more. “Good?”

“Mmhm.”

Keith ties a bow that’s perhaps too careful for a top that will have to be untied and re-tied a number of times during the night. His knuckles and fingertips dust over Shiro’s back all the while. “How’s that?”

“Great,” Shiro says, reluctantly turning around. “Thanks.”

“Now me.” Keith holds the choker out.

“How tight do you want it?” Shiro asks quietly, fitting the choker around Keith’s neck as Keith holds his hair back. His skin is soft, and he radiates heat. Shiro brushes his knuckles along the baby hairs at the base of Keith’s head.

Keith’s neck turns an attractive light pink. “Tight enough to stay, but don’t choke me.” A beat. “Much.”

“Ha ha,” Shiro deadpans, feeling his cheeks heat. He fastens the choker on one of the tightest rings. Keith has a slender neck. “How does that feel?”

Keith pats the leather. “Is it twisted?”

Shiro checks. It is. “Whoops,” he says. “Here, I’ll redo it.”

Keith’s silence sounds smug. Shiro wonders if Keith thinks he fastened the choker wrong on purpose.

“There,” Shiro announces.

“Thanks,” Keith says, turning around. His fingertip brushes against the leather. “Feels good.” They stand there staring at each other, dumb and pink-cheeked, for more than a moment.

Matt’s cursing snaps them out of it. “Shit- ow- Champion?” he calls. Shiro’s attention snaps to Matt. “Can you come help me tie this?”

“Yeah, sure, one second,” Shiro says. He looks back at Keith, but Keith has all but disappeared into his bag, fumbling around inside looking for something.

“What was that all about?” Matt asks through the corner of his mouth as Shiro ties Matt’s top on.

Shiro breathes out through his nose. “I’m…not sure,” he admits.

Matt only hums in response.

* * *

It’s the end of the night when it happens.

Shiro and Keith are getting changed side-by-side, chatting tiredly about nothing in particular. It’s been a lucrative night, but a rough one, and Shiro can feel the beginning of a headache in his temples. The buzz of dancers airing their grievances around him isn’t helping. He’s got about enough friendliness to last until Matt drops him off at home, and then he’s going to be irritable for the next two days straight.

“—fucking ugly-ass mullet, how’d he make so much and we made shit?” Shiro hears muttered from the far corner.

“You know how,” another voice says. They both snicker.

Shiro looks over at Keith. He’s tense but controlled, going through the motions of putting his street clothes on.

“Yeah, and you remember a couple weeks ago when—"

“—from Champion, right?”

“Yeah, and you know that went down. I know you know how that went down.” More snickering.

Keith’s standing stock still. His teeth are clenched, and his hands are in fists by his sides. He looks like he’s trying with all his might to keep from throwing punches. Shiro remembers their texted conversation from a few days ago. The other dancers want Keith to start another fight.

All right, that’s it. Shiro leans down to whisper in Keith’s ear. “Dallas, go home,” he says.

“Don’t you hear what they’re saying about us?” Keith whispers back. “About _you_?”

“I’ll handle it,” Shiro says. “Go.” He all but forces Keith out of the dressing room. He goes to make eye contact with Matt and finds that he’s already left. Good. If he’s smart, he won’t wait for Shiro in the parking lot either.

“—much dick do you think he had to suck to get the managers to like him so much—”

Shiro rounds on the gossiping dancers. “If you have a problem with me,” he declares, “you can say it to my face.”

“Nobody’s saying shit about you,” one of them—oh, good, it’s Chase—says. “Mind your own business, you look stupid.”

“Not as stupid as you look trying to steal my customers,” Shiro retorts. His headache’s getting worse by the second. “All I have to do is walk up, and you’re forgotten. I even tried to help you out, and my customer didn’t want you. You’re over here running your broke mouth to your broke friends about my hustle. Focus on your own, and maybe then you’ll make some money.”

Chase turns so he’s fully facing Shiro. “I make plenty of money,” he spits, “ _and_ I don’t suck dick to do it—”

“Right, you just sell drugs instead.”

“— _and_ I don’t suck Mitch’s dick to keep my fucktoy on the roster.”

“Do not talk about Dallas like that.”

“I’ll talk about whoever I want however I want. I mean, that’s what he is, isn’t he? You’re training him for something, that’s for sure. I’ve seen you two go into the rooms together. What do you do back there, fuck each other and then the customers?”

Shiro’s head throbs. He sees red. He just barely registers the sound of footsteps outside the dressing room. “Is that your fantasy, Chase? You know I’m not that kind of girl. Maybe if you buy me dinner first. Hey, let me have some of your soda.” Shiro reaches for the cup on the counter.

Chase grabs Shiro’s wrist. “Don’t you fucking touch my stuff.”

“C’mon. I want some.” Shiro pushes against Chase’s hold, just enough to make Chase feel the power Shiro’s keeping under control, and makes a grabby motion with his hand. “What, we aren’t friends? Chase, you want to fuck me so badly, aren’t we friends?”

Chase tightens his grip on Shiro’s wrist. It’s probably painful, but Shiro doesn’t feel it. He can barely hear Chase over the pounding in his head. “You’re showing a lot of disrespect,” he says. “Don’t make me beat you. I’ll beat you and your bitch.”

Shiro runs out of fucks. He looks Chase up and down, and he laughs.

He’s got a split second to realize he’s won before Chase’s fist connects with his face.

All around them, there’s commotion. Shiro registers another hit, then another. Pain cracks across his cheekbones. He hopes that’s enough. If it isn’t, he’ll face the consequences.

Chase swings again with his right hand. Shiro grabs his wrist mid-swing with his own right hand and spins Chase around. Chase staggers, his back crashing into Shiro’s chest, and Shiro snakes both his hands under Chase’s arms and over the base of his neck to hold him.

Chase’s arms are useless. He kicks back, trying to get at Shiro’s knees. He lands a hard kick on Shiro’s shin. Shiro cants forward, banging Chase’s face against the counter. Chase strains in Shiro’s hold, then goes limp, falling to his knees. Blood and tears hit the floor in mixed messy droplets.

Shiro’s on his knees as well, still holding Chase in a full nelson. Chase’s body is lax and his breath is stuttering, but Shiro’s not taking any chances. He doesn’t release the hold even when Chase’s head falls forward.

The bouncers only come into the dressing room once Shiro’s got Chase immobilized. Mom and Tim, tonight’s manager on duty, are close behind, and in the back of the crowd, hanging back outside the dressing room, are Matt and Keith.

“He attacked me,” Chase is saying, blood splattering off his lips, “he just went crazy, just like Dallas, he was trying to take my soda, and then he just started hitting me.” He takes a wad of paper towels from his friend, but Shiro’s hold prevents him from using them.

“Drop the act,” Shiro mutters in his ear. “They saw you start it.”

“Let him up,” John, one of the bouncers, orders. Shiro releases Chase. Chase takes his paper towels and presses them to his face, tilting his head back to try and stop the bleeding. John turns to Chase. “Once you’ve cleaned up, get your stuff out of your locker and I’ll escort you off the premises.”

“What the _fuck_ ,” Chase says. “I’m getting fired for this? Ugly mullet newbie gets to stay but I’m getting fired? I didn’t do anything! Champion broke my nose!”

“Dallas has shaped up,” Tim says from his position behind John. “You, on the other hand, have become a problem the past couple weeks.”

Chase makes an ugly attempt at a snort. “This is unfair,” he says. “Everyone knows Dallas is the real problem. Champion, too, for sucking Mitch’s dick to keep Dallas around.”

“Champion,” Charles, the other bouncer, calls. “Grab your stuff and come with me.”

Shiro nods solemnly. “Am I clearing my locker out too?”

Charles looks to Tim. “That…remains to be seen,” Tim says. “I have to talk to Mitch and Kihyun. For now, no.”

Shiro leaves the dressing room and its raucousness behind. He follows Charles to where Matt and Keith are standing, then all four of them walk out to the parking lot.

Once they’re outside, Matt whoops and claps Shiro on the back. “And that’s how you got the name Champion!”

“Watch it,” Charles says, checking behind them to make sure no dancers are following. “I’m not breaking up any more fights tonight.”

“Haven’t even broken up one,” Matt mutters, but he shuts up. Shiro’s glad for it. He hasn’t done anything worthy of celebration tonight.

Charles waits by the door. “I’ll watch you drive off and make sure no one follows you.”

“Thanks,” Keith says, at the same time as Matt says, “Appreciate it.”

Before they head for their separate cars, Keith puts a hand on Shiro’s arm. “Thank you,” he says. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Shiro knows that. He doesn’t feel great about it. He doesn’t feel great about Keith thanking him, either. “I’m not normally like this,” he tries to explain. “Chase caught me in a bad mood.” He doesn’t need to spell out the way his nerves screech after a night of fending off probing fingers and greedy mouths. Every other dancer knows the feeling well.

It’s still not an excuse for fighting. Shiro’s gut churns with guilt.

“Are you,” Keith looks down at his shoes, “are you going to get fired? Because of me?”

“If I get fired,” Shiro says, “it’ll be because I escalated a situation knowing full well it would lead to a fight. Nothing that happened tonight was because of you. In fact,” he looks between Matt and Keith, “thanks to you—both of you—Tim and Mom and the bouncers all witnessed what happened. It’s probably because of that that I didn’t get fired straight away.”

Keith doesn’t look mollified. Matt snakes an arm around his shoulders. “What Champion’s saying,” he says, “is you and me? We’re the heroes of tonight.”

“But,” Keith protests, worming out of Matt’s grasp, “if it weren’t for me, he wouldn’t have even gotten in that fight—”

“Not true,” Shiro says. “I lost my cool back there. If there are consequences, I brought them on myself.”

“But—”

“No buts,” Shiro says. “I made my choices, and I’ll live with them.”

They leave it at that. Keith goes to his car, and Shiro follows Matt to his. As they’re getting in, Matt perks up and waves to Keith, like he’s forgotten to tell him something.

“So,” he calls across the parking lot, too casually, “Dallas. You remember your very first night, when you told Champion he looked like he couldn’t beat anyone’s ass?”

Keith goes beet red. “Shut up,” he says, and shuts his car door.

* * *

Shiro doesn’t get fired.

He does get yelled at. Mitch is the manager on duty for Saturday night, and he makes it clear that no matter what Tim says happened, he’s prepared to fire Shiro—and, while he’s at it, Keith—if either of them so much as looks at another dancer wrong. Shiro apologizes, and apologizes again, and promises Mitch that neither he nor Keith will cause any more problems ever again ever, and that’s the end of it.

Post-Chase, the dressing room is different. There’s been a shift in the air, and the atmosphere is closer to normal than it’s been in a while. None of the other dancers know that Shiro’s on thin ice with Mitch; all they know is that Shiro broke Chase’s nose and Chase is the one who got fired for it. Suddenly, the hostility has ceased. People still don’t like Keith, but they’re leaving both him and Shiro alone. The new pervasive rumor is that that management likes Shiro so much that he is untouchable. Shiro’s usually honest with his coworkers, but the lie by omission is worth it for the peace he and Keith attain.

It’s also worth it for Matt. Now that the drama has cleared up, Matt’s no longer afraid to be seen hanging out with Shiro at work.

“I’m really liking your new character,” Matt says while he and Shiro are on a smoke break. “Forcing you to branch out is maybe the best decision the party has made so far.”

“You think?” Shiro asks. “It still feels weird that I’m a paladin anymore. I’ve been a one-class player for just about as long as I’ve been playing D&D. Though I am enjoying learning more about clerics.” He frowns. “I play much slower now, though. I’m still getting the hang of the ins and outs of the cleric class.”

Matt blows his smoke away from Shiro. “I think that’s good, for you and the rest of the party. Watching you put in the effort to understand how your class works has done wonders for Lance, at least.”

Shiro chuckles. “Pidge doesn’t have to keep reminding him to check for traps.”

Matt smiles and takes another drag of his cigarette. “You think anything’s gonna happen there?”

“What, between Pidge and Lance?”

“Mm.”

Shiro takes a drag and blows the smoke out slowly. “I honestly hadn’t thought about it,” he says. “I don’t think Pidge—sorry, Katie—has ever talked to me about any romantic feelings for anyone. And Lance…” Shiro goes silent as he tries to figure out how to word what he wants to say next. “Well, he gets crushes all the time, but his type seems to be girls who are, um…”

“Pretty?” Matt offers. “Feminine?”

Shiro winces.

Matt laughs. “I’ve known my sister since she was born, Champion, I know what she looks like.” He puts his cigarette out and looks up at the sky. “I don’t know,” he says. “You’re right about both of them. I just have this…feeling…like there’s tension between them.”

Shiro chuckles and puts out his own cigarette. “There is tension between them,” he says. “They like to push each other’s buttons. They’d probably annoy each other to death if we let them.” He follows Matt’s gaze upward. “You’ve got a lot on your plate running these D&D sessions.”

“Hm,” Matt muses. “I do, don’t I. But, hey,” he snaps his gaze back to Shiro. “I’ve been thinking…maybe I could handle a little more.”

“What?” Shiro turns to look at Matt.

“Well, we’ve got a pretty full party already, but lately I’ve been wondering if I could maybe handle one more player…” Matt’s expression goes sly. “It’s fun to watch you play with the kids, but you seem a little isolated sometimes. It would be nice to balance the group out with someone you know a little better.”

Shiro takes in a sharp breath. “Chip. Seriously?” Matt can’t mean Keith. He doesn’t even like Keith. Just days ago he was doing everything he could to avoid Keith in the dressing room.

Matt nods slowly. “So,” he goes on, “if there’s anyone you can think of who might be interested, some new friend, perhaps someone who thinks everything you do is really cool…feel free to invite them.”

Matt _does_ mean Keith. He must trust Shiro’s judgment a whole lot. Shiro’s chest goes tight with appreciation. “If you’re sure,” he says.

Matt’s smirk evens out into a fond smile. “Of course I’m sure,” he says. “I think Dallas would be a great addition to our party.”

“I’ll ask him, then,” Shiro says, smiling back at Matt.

“Make sure you do.” Matt shivers. “You ready to head back in?”

“More than,” Shiro says. “I can’t wait until it warms up.”

“I can,” Matt replies. “With nice weather comes slow season. You got savings to get you through the summer?”

“Ugh. No.” Life is so hard.

* * *

Shiro runs into Keith in the dressing room some thirty minutes later. Keith’s attempting to simultaneously comb a huge knot out of his hair and flatiron some very crumpled bills, and he is succeeding at neither.

“Here, let me,” Shiro says, grabbing the flatiron from Keith’s grasp. “You concentrate on your hair.”

“Thanks, Champion,” Keith says.

They work in silence for a couple minutes before Shiro speaks up. “So, Chip and I were talking tonight,” he starts.

“Hm?”

Shiro puts one very hot, perfectly flat twenty-dollar bill in Keith’s stack. “Remember how I play D&D with him on Sundays?”

“Yeah,” Keith says, still a little distracted by his hair. “You have to be a cleric because you can’t be a paladin anymore.”

“Right,” Shiro says. “Chip thinks our campaign could use another player.”

Keith’s comb stills. His gaze flicks sideways to Shiro’s face.

“And,” Shiro continues, “I know you’re usually out hiking on Sundays, but we wanted to extend the offer to you, if you want to come play with us.”

Keith blinks at Shiro. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Shiro says. “I remember you said D&D sounded fun, and I’d really like to play with you.”

Keith smiles, but fidgets. “And…Chip’s okay with me joining you guys?”

“He is,” Shiro says. “In fact, he’s the one who suggested I invite you.”

Keith’s eyes go wide. “Oh,” he says. He looks down. “I didn’t think he liked me very much.”

Shiro nods. “I…thought that too at first,” he admits. “He’s really friendly, though. I think he was just trying to avoid all the drama that you, uh…faced,” Shiro words charitably. _Incited_ will likely not go over well, even if it’s true. “Now that things have settled down, I think you’re about to see and hear a lot more of him.”

Keith looks back up at Shiro and grins. “I’d love to join. Thank you, Champion.”

“You don’t need to thank me,” Shiro says. “I want you there. I should be thanking you for giving up your Sunday hikes to play some nerd game.”

“I want to play your nerd game,” Keith says. He puts a hand on Shiro’s forearm. “I can hike another day. And hey, then you can come with me.”

Shiro smiles and covers Keith’s hand with his own. “I’d like that.”

 _Once again, we are looking for Dallas on satellite stage_ , the DJ calls over the intercom.

Keith starts. “Fuck, I didn’t hear him call me. I just got out of a room. I can’t go out there like this!” He gestures at his hair. “Can I go out there like this?”

Shiro’s arm feels cold where Keith’s hand just was. “No, but you’re gonna have to. Don’t get charged for missing stage. Remember, management’s on both our asses right now.”

“Shit.” Keith looks down at his pile of money with panicked eyes. “ _Shit_.”

“I’ll keep an eye on it for you,” Shiro says. “I’ll straighten the rest of it, too.”

“God, thank you. Be back in five.” Keith gives Shiro a grateful look, then turns and power-clomps out of the dressing room. He doesn’t think anything of leaving all his money with Shiro. He doesn’t even spare Shiro a single backward glance.

Shiro turns back to flatironing Keith’s money, a warm glow in his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _and if i catch it coming back my way_  
>  _i'm gonna serve it to you_  
>  _and that ain't what you want to hear_  
>  _but that's what i'll do_  
>  The White Stripes, _Seven Nation Army_
> 
> thoughts on this chapter:  
> \- writer's block writer's block writer's block  
> \- needs more d&d  
> \- what do you mean the dressing room isn't a galra gladiator arena  
> \- thunderstorm darkness  
> \- next chapter better have a really strippery song to make up for this one, tho bachelor parties do love it


	5. So Cold

“Oh,” Keith says. “Pencils. And paper. And books. I…don’t know why I didn’t expect that.”

“Well, we _could_ do everything on-screen,” Matt says. “My sister does. She’s got a whole setup on her tablet—I had to tell her she couldn’t use a random number generator to roll her dice. The rest of us use pencil and paper, though.”

It’s Tuesday night, and it’s early, so the club is dead. About twenty minutes ago, Shiro and Matt were practicing pole work on the side stage while Keith watched, citing knee pain as his reason for not joining them. Shiro stopped practicing to give Keith some advice about pain management, and Matt suggested heading back to the dressing room to “do something else.” This is how Shiro learned that no matter where Matt is, he always has a copy of the Player’s Handbook, a folder full of blank character sheets and scratch paper, sharp yellow #2 pencils with perfect erasers, and two sets of dice.

“I’m good with that,” Keith says, flipping through the Player’s Handbook. “Where do I start?”

“Let’s figure out your class, and then your race.” Matt grabs a perfectly-sharpened pencil and a sheet of paper. “What do you want to do in combat?”

“Uh,” Keith says, flipping around until he finds the part of the Player’s Handbook that details the classes. “Let’s see…”

Matt flips his pencil through his fingers. “Do you want to tank? Talk to other people? Cast spells?”

“Not really,” Keith says. “I don’t want magic, and I don’t want to be the face of the party.” He skims the pages, eyes flicking back and forth. “Can I have a dog?”

Matt scribbles something down. “You can,” he says. “Want to be a ranger? You’d have a couple of spells, but casting wouldn’t be your primary mode of combat. And you’d get an animal companion at level four. The party’s about level three now, so it shouldn’t take too long before you could get your dog.”

Keith smiles his small smile. “A ranger. Yeah. I’d like that.”

“Great.” Matt notes down something else. “Now we need to choose your race. Look through,” he grabs the book and flips to the section on races, “here, and let me know what sounds good.”

Keith leafs through the Player’s Handbook, frowning in concentration. Eventually, he looks up. “I want to be a half-elf.”

“Sounds good.”

Matt explains the basic mechanics of playing a half-elf ranger, then breaks out the dice for Keith to roll his stats. He talks Keith through what his stats mean, what skills he has and what they do, and what gear he should have. Shiro cuts in occasionally with additional explanations when Keith looks confused. It takes about an hour, and both Keith and Shiro have to take a break to go on stage, but finally, Keith’s character is complete.

Almost.

“Now for the finishing touch,” Matt says, tapping his finger at the top of the character sheet. “What’s your name?”

Keith purses his lips together. “Hmm,” he says. He taps his pencil against the blank name field a few times, then writes something down.

Matt and Shiro lean in to read it at the same time.

“Really?” Matt says, chuckling a little.

“What?” Keith’s tone slants toward the defensive.

“I think that’s a cool name,” Shiro says. “A cool name for a cool character.” He means it, too.

Evidently Keith can hear the honesty in Shiro’s voice, because he relaxes and offers Shiro a shy look. “You think so?”

Shiro smiles and nudges Keith with his elbow. “Definitely.”

Thunderstorm Darkness the half-elf ranger is going to be an excellent addition to the party.

* * *

“And you’re _sure_ it’s okay for me to play with you guys?” Keith asks, nervously tapping his fingers against his paper cup. He’s come into the city a little before the start of the session to get coffee with Shiro in Matt’s neighborhood. Shiro invited Matt along, but Matt was busy setting up for the session and getting his living room presentable. He’s a junk hoarder, and his apartment is riddled with broken tech that he swears he’s “fixing.” It runs in the family—Pidge is just as bad. Shiro suspects they get that trait from their father, if the single time he’s been in Sam Holt’s shed is any indication.

Shiro sips his tea. “Of course, Keith,” he says. “We’re all looking forward to having you in the party.”

“Okay,” Keith says. He still doesn’t sound entirely convinced. Shiro’s not surprised. Keith has been asking variations of this question every day since Shiro invited him to join the campaign. “And the others know what you and Matt do, right?” He’s asked this question before, too.

“Yes,” Shiro says, “but you don’t have to be out to them. Matt and I will keep your job a secret if you want us to.”

“Right,” Keith says, nodding slightly. “And our cover story? For how we know each other?”

Shiro grins. They’ve been over this as well. “Well, we could always say we go to the same gym? You bought the bookcase I sold on Craigslist a few months ago? I thirst followed you on Instagram? I’m always fond of ‘we met in line at Target’.”

Keith shoots Shiro a dirty look. “Nobody befriends random people they meet in line at Target,” he says. “And I don’t have Instagram. We can say the gym one, I guess.”

“Sounds like a plan.” It is, in fact, the plan they have already agreed on twice. Shiro downs the rest of his tea. “It’s almost time. You ready?”

Keith fits the plastic lid back on his cup. He takes a deep breath. “Guess so.”

The weather is sunny and mild as they make the short walk to Matt’s place. The main street is bustling with neighborhood residents going about their Sunday, ranging from families taking a post-church stroll to young adults with bleary eyes searching out coffee and breakfast. Keith looks around with curious eyes but says nothing.

Matt’s building is just a couple blocks up from the café. It’s a nondescript apartment building on a block of nondescript apartment buildings. Matt’s unit is visible from the street, and recognizable by the sprawl of plants on his small balcony—Pidge’s doing. She’s taken up gardening recently, and is surprisingly good at it for someone who’s allergic to being outside. Matt’s curtains are pulled back, and Shiro can see his head swaying back and forth to whatever music he’s got on.

Shiro points. “There’s Matt,” he says. He pulls out his phone and shoots off a quick text. “He’s gonna come down to let us in. Let’s go wait by the door.” He starts walking up to the front of the building, but stops when he realizes Keith isn’t following him. “Keith?” He looks back.

Keith’s arms are folded over his middle, and he’s clutching his coffee cup tightly. “Shiro,” he says, “I…”

Shiro comes back and puts a hand on Keith’s arm. “Do you need some time before we go in?”

Keith shakes his head. “No, I just…” He huffs a sigh through his nose. “It’s nothing. It’s stupid.”

“It’s not,” Shiro says. “What is it?”

Keith stares intently at a spot on the sidewalk. “I’m just nervous,” he mumbles. “It’s not a big deal.”

Clattering footsteps signal Matt’s arrival a few seconds before he appears to open the door. “Hey guys!” he greets, holding the door open for Shiro and Keith. “Come on in. Pidge and the others should be here soon. I put Lance on snack duty, which I guess means Pidge and Hunk are also on snack duty since Lance drives them. So they may be a little late. They like to argue about food. Well, Pidge and Lance like to argue about everything, and Hunk likes to argue about food. Don’t just stand there, come in!” He gestures rapidly.

Keith and Shiro follow Matt inside, through the entryway, up the stairwell to the second floor, and into Matt’s apartment. Keith clutches his coffee in front of him the whole time.

“And here we are,” Matt announces when he opens the door. “Home sweet home. The table’s all set up for the session. I’ve got your character sheets, and there should be plenty of pencils and dice. Bathroom is through that door, I’ve got a Bluetooth speaker so feel free to play whatever music you want, and food and drinks are coming soon.” He spreads his arms wide. “Make yourself at home.”

“…Thanks.” Keith stands still. He’s focused on taking stock of the apartment. Shiro follows Keith’s gaze as he studies the space. Matt’s place is small-ish, the kitchen is tiny and outdated, and the carpet is graying; but the living area is spacious and set up for entertaining. From the well-worn pull-out couch draped in fluffy blankets, to the dining table with six chairs placed around it, to the dozen or so framed photos of Matt’s family and friends that hang on the wall behind the table, Matt’s life is reflected in his space. The apartment is homey, inviting.

Keith’s lips are thin. His shoulders are tense. He holds himself like he’s unsure where he should be.

Shiro places a hand on Keith’s upper back. “Let’s go sit down,” he says. He steers Keith toward the couch.

Matt heads for the dining table to fuss with a couple things at his DM station. “Sorry again that I couldn’t get coffee with you guys,” he says.

“No worries,” Shiro says. “I know what this place looks like on Saturdays.”

Matt chuckles. “I have a lot of stuff,” he tells Keith, “so when I don’t have people over, this place gets pretty cluttered.”

“I see,” Keith says, looking between Shiro and Matt curiously. He takes a sip of his coffee and recoils.

“That’s a face,” Matt says. “Gone cold? I can make you a fresh cup if you want.”

Keith draws his cup closer to his chest. “That’s all right,” he says. “I don’t want to bother you.”

“Oh, it’s no bother,” Matt says, already heading for the kitchen. “How do you take it?”

“Really, it’s fine,” Keith says.

“Cream and sugar?”

“I can just finish this one—”

“No, that one’s cold. You can finish the one I give you.”

“It’s okay. Seriously.”

Matt gestures at the coffee maker, which is already brewing coffee. “So,” he says, drawing out the ‘o,’ “lots of cream and lots of sugar?”

Keith deflates. He looks defeated, but his shoulders lose some of their tension. “Just a little cream,” he mumbles, “and lots of sugar. Sorry.”

“No problem,” Matt says. “Shiro, you want anything while I’m up?”

Shiro raises an eyebrow. “You have any tea yet?”

Matt sighs heavily. “Alas, this house allows no leaf water.”

“Only bean water,” Shiro retorts. “For as often as I stay over here, I might as well just bring my own.”

Keith shifts uncomfortably next to him. Shiro meets his gaze. Keith turns pink and looks down at his cup.

“I’ll take that,” Matt says, motioning for Keith to give him the paper cup. “And I’ll switch it out with this.” He and Keith trade cups.

Keith looks down into his steaming mug of fresh coffee, with just a little cream and lots of sugar. “Thanks,” he says.

“You’re welcome,” Matt says. His phone rings, lighting up his pocket. “Hey, Pidge. You’re here? Okay, I’ll come down.” He hangs up and grabs his keys. “Be back in a second.”

The door closes, leaving Keith and Shiro to sit in silence. Keith sips at his coffee. Shiro scrolls through his phone.

“Hey, Shiro?” Keith says slowly.

Shiro looks up. “Hm?”

“Uh,” Keith says, “I don’t want to be…to pry, or anything, but.” He wraps his hands around his mug. “Are you and Matt, like…?”

“Like…?” It takes Shiro a second to realize. “Oh! No,” he chuckles, “we’re not.”

“O-oh. Okay.” Keith doesn’t smile, but his expression goes softer.

“We’re good friends, and we live close, so I’ll come hang out after work sometimes. It’s helpful when I don’t want to go home to an empty apartment.” Shiro pauses, finding his words. “My place is kind of…sparse. Minimal, you know? And Matt’s is so full of personality. It’s comforting.”

Keith looks around the living room. “Yeah,” he says, “I guess.” He takes another sip of coffee. “Think I’d like your place better.”

Shiro chokes down a reflexive laugh when Keith’s face makes it clear he’s not joking. Shiro’s not sure how Keith can say that. Anyone would like Matt’s cozy apartment better than Shiro’s impersonal one. Hell, _Shiro_ likes Matt’s place better than his own. “Yeah?”

Keith looks down into his mug. “Yeah,” he says. “I’m…used to not having a lot of stuff. Places like this kinda make me feel weird.”

Shiro frowns. Keith did look uncomfortable when they first walked in. “I noticed that,” he says. “Is there anything I can do to make you feel less weird?”

Keith glances shyly up to meet Shiro’s eyes. “Trust me, Shiro,” he says, “you’re already doing a lot.”

There’s a clamor of activity out in the hall. Keith straightens, eyes wide, and then the door opens and the noise spills inside, four people all talking and laughing at once.

“The snacks have arrived!” Lance announces, swinging two heavy-looking plastic bags as he enters. “Oh, and there’s some food too, I guess.”

“Oh, good one, Lance,” Hunk says, following after.

“What are you talking about?” Matt asks. “Shiro and I were already here.”

“Oh, yeah, ha,” Hunk says, “you know, if you think about it, they kind of are professional snacks.”

Lance huffs. “Well, don’t think about it then, Hunk. Food’s here, we’re here, let’s roll some dice!” He grabs a 2-liter of soda out of one of the bags and moves to open it.

“Nononono-!” Pidge smacks Lance’s hand away before he can turn the cap. “You were _just_ shaking that around, like, five seconds ago!”

“Oh, chillax, Katie, I knew that,” Lance says. “I was just…testing your reflexes.”

Pidge flexes her hands. “Catlike as always. Don’t touch the sodas.”

Keith looks at Shiro. “Uh…?”

“Oh!” Pidge says, bounding over to the couch. “Hi. You must be Keith. I’m Katie,” she holds her hand out, “and these are my friends from school. The big guy’s Hunk, and that goofball is Lance.”

“Hey!” Lance protests. “I’m not a goofball!”

“You almost bathed my brother’s kitchen in Pepsi.”

Keith gingerly takes Pidge’s hand. “Nice to meet you,” he says slowly.

“Hey, nice to meet you, Keith,” Hunk waves.

“Yeah, yeah,” Lance says, “ _enchanté._ Keith, Pepsi or Fanta? …Katie will pour them. In five minutes.”

Keith raises his mug. “I’m…good,” he says. He looks a little lost.

“’Kay,” Lance calls. “Shiro?”

“I’ll just have water for now, thanks,” Shiro replies. “Hey, Katie. How are you?”

Pidge sighs. “Mom and Dad are getting on my case again about learning how to drive, because my birthday’s coming up, but I don’t see why I need to learn right now. We only have two cars, and my parents use them every day, so it’s not like I could drive myself to school or anything, and plus, I don’t really see myself as a driver. I get nervous just thinking about driving, and my spatial perception is really not that great. Maybe it’ll get better as I learn, but what if it doesn’t and I’m just a shitty driver forever? But then again, Lance is a shitty driver and he gets by just fine.” She drops onto the couch beside Shiro. “How are you?”

“I’m all right,” Shiro says, smiling fondly at Pidge’s rapid-fire speech. “Work’s gone fully back to normal, so that’s nice.”

“That’s good,” Pidge says. “Matt’s talking to you again?”

“Yeah, and the managers finally aren’t—”

“Oh, yeah!” Lance interrupts. “You wasted that guy who was trash talking you a couple weeks ago. Are the other guys, like, afraid of you now? Like you’re one of the really rough ones, and if they get on your bad side, you’ll just- _ha! ya! hi-yah!_ ”

Lance is behind Shiro, so Shiro can’t see him, but, “Whatever you’re doing, stop it. And I didn’t ‘waste’ him, I just…subdued him with a little more force than was strictly necessary.”

Next to him, Pidge snorts. “That’s a charming way of putting it.”

“He totally wasted the guy,” Matt stage whispers. “I saw him. I was there.”

Hunk swallows audibly. “That’s kinda scary, though,” he says, “that you can just get in fights like that at work. I mean, I know you’ve never had to do something like that before—”

“And I didn’t _have_ to do it this time,” Shiro reminds, turning around to face the table.

“But it’s just, I don’t know, it’s scary to think about. I wouldn’t want to work where you work.”

Matt, seated in his chair at the head of the table, shrugs. “That’s just the life of a stripper,” he says airily. “Sometimes ass just demands to be kicked.”

“That’s some big talk,” Shiro says, “for a guy who ran out of the dressing room before the fight even started. Can we stop talking about this?”

Lance waves him off. “Oh,” he says, “forgive us for daring to want to hear about your exciting life working in society’s seedy underbelly.”

“It’s really not that exciting,” Matt says. “And Hunk’s right, fights are scary when they’re happening.”

“Sure, I get that, but what I’m saying is they’re cool to _hear_ about—”

“Guys.” Keith speaks up for the first time. “Shiro said stop talking about it.”

“Okay, okay,” Lance says, holding his hands up. “You’re right.” He levels Keith with a pointed stare. “So what’s your story?”

Hunk chimes in. “Yeah,” he says, “how do you know Shiro?”

All eyes are on Keith. “I- uh—” he stammers, face gone pale. He looks at Shiro with wide, panicked eyes. For all their planning, he seems to have forgotten his cover story. Shiro’s right about to step in when Keith blurts out, “We met in line at Target.”

Silence descends upon the group. Everyone blinks at each other. Then Lance groans and points an accusatory finger at Shiro. “Oh my _god_ ,” he complains, “you’re just like my mom. We’re not gonna get, like, fifteen new players now, are we? I swear, every time she goes to Target I get a new aunt. I already have enough aunts!”

“At least your mom doesn’t call it _Targ_ _é_ ,” Pidge counters, clambering over the back of the couch to go grab some soda. “And we go every week.”

“Oh, no. Katie,” Hunk says, “you know I love your mother, but. Gar- _bage_. She’s got _my_ mom saying it now!”

“Ugh,” Pidge says. “Why do we let our parents hang out. They’re bad influences on each other.”

The conversation moves on. Keith looks positively lost. He looks between Pidge, Lance, and Hunk, then turns and stares at Shiro, brows knitted together, mouth hanging open.

Shiro responds with a chuckle and a helpless shrug. He’s just glad it worked out.

* * *

The first half of the session goes smoothly, if not ideally. Keith picks up the game mechanics fairly quickly, and it’s clear that he’s studied how his character works. He’s helpful and attentive in combat, but he’s not at all engaged in group decision-making. While Shiro and the others squabble over the best course of action, Keith stays silent. It almost feels as though Keith is an NPC instead of part of the team.

For now, it’s not that big of a deal. They’ve just entered a dungeon and are clearing out the beginning rooms, so the focus is on straightforward combat. Still, Shiro wonders why Keith, who has strong opinions and has never been shy about voicing them, seems so reluctant to get involved in roleplay problem-solving.

Maybe he just hasn’t been given an engaging enough problem to solve?

“Okay,” Matt says, “you arrive in a large, circular, high-ceilinged room with a cylindrical pedestal in the middle. In front of you stand five nearly-identical lion statues, each one about as big as a pony. At first glance, you don’t see anything else. You don’t see any doors, either.”

“Hm,” Lance says, “maybe we shouldn’t do this now?”

“Agreed,” Hunk says, “this sounds creepy. Let’s go back out.”

“We turn around and leave,” Pidge says.

“The door you came in from is gone,” Matt says, pushing his glasses up. They fall right back down again, and Matt pouts.

“Oh, what?” Lance pouts. “Okay, fine. We’ll do the creepy lion puzzle. What else can we find in this room?”

They search the pedestal and find five carved markings equally-spaced around its circumference, with lines running from each marking and meeting in the center of the circle. They also find an inscription in Celestial that reads, _The lion goddess, born from her followers, leads the way to salvation._

“Okay,” Pidge muses, “so in order to move on, we have to summon this lion goddess.”

Lance moves his character figurine over to the lion statues, represented on the playing mat by five gummy bears. “We probably gotta use these, right? Lion goddess, lion statues, something?”

“The markings on the pedestal seem to show five different things joining as one,” Hunk adds. “Maybe let’s check for similar markings on the lions?”

A quick search turns up similar markings on the lions.

“Okay,” Shiro murmurs, “so what do we do?” He looks at Matt’s drawing of the pedestal. “Maybe we have to put the lion statues in a circle around the pedestal, with the lions matching up to their markings?” He looks to the rest of the group for assent.

“Let’s give it a shot,” Pidge says.

They arrange the lions nose-first around the pedestal.

“Cool,” Matt says. “How long do you wait?”

Lance grabs a salt and vinegar chip from the bag next to his elbow. “…As long as it takes?”

Pidge shakes her head. “If we did it right, we shouldn’t have to wait.”

“But what if it’s, like, ancient magic?” Hunk asks.

“Why would the age of the magic make a difference?”

Hunk shrugs. “I don’t know, maybe ancient magic is slower, because it’s, you know…”

“Elderly?” Pidge sighs. “I don’t think we should wait for very long.”

“I’m with Katie,” Keith speaks up. He’s finally given an opinion on something. Shiro feels his shoulders drop a tension he didn’t notice he was carrying. He sneaks a glance over at Matt. Matt gives Shiro a surreptitious thumbs-up. “If nothing happens immediately, we try something else.”

Lance harrumphs. “Okay, well, what’s your great idea?”

Keith studies Matt’s drawing and the inscription he’s written beneath it. “‘Born from her followers’…maybe we’re not supposed to be _summoning_ the lion goddess,” he posits. “Maybe we’re supposed to be creating her, using the lions, here on the pedestal.”

“What do you mean?” Shiro asks.

“I mean literally building the lion goddess. Like stacking on top of each other.”

Lance snorts. “Like a cheerleader pyramid?”

“You got a better idea?”

Shiro hums. “It’s worth a try,” he says.

“Okay,” Matt says, once they’ve figured out how to form the pyramid without hurting themselves or breaking the statues. “How long do you wait this time?”

“We don’t,” Keith says.

“Well,” Hunk says, “maybe we do. You know. Ancient magic. It’s slower. I’m pretty sure ancient magic is slower.”

“Hunk,” Pidge says, “ancient magic is not slower.”

“You don’t know that. It could be.”

“Whatever.” Pidge looks down at the grid. “Matt, you said this room is circular, right?”

“Right,” Matt confirms.

“Have we looked around the perimeter of the room yet? Maybe Shiro was right the first time, and we do need to put the lions in a circle around the pedestal, but we were thinking on too small a scale. Maybe we need to use the whole room to summon her.”

“Good thinking, Katie,” Shiro says. “Let’s fan out and search the edges of the room.”

Matt grins. “You guys find…five markings that match the markings on the pedestal and the lions, etched into tiles equal distances apart around the room.”

“Awesome,” Hunk says.

Each party member takes a lion statue and sets it on its corresponding tile at the edge of the room.

Nothing happens. “How long do you wait?”

“Ugh!” Lance groans. “What’s wrong _now_? We had it!”

“Yeah, Matt, what gives?”

Keith picks up Matt’s drawing again and frowns at the inscription. “Guys,” he says. “What if the lion goddess’s ‘followers’ aren’t the lions?”

The group turns confused stares on Keith. “What else would they be?” Hunk asks.

“Us,” Keith says.

“Oh,” Shiro realizes. “Maybe we have to ride the lions, and then ‘follow’ the lion goddess out of the room? Good idea, Keith. Let’s try it.”

Keith looks at Matt. “We mount our lions.”

“The tiles glow ice blue,” Matt narrates.

“Yes!” Pidge turns to Keith. “High-five!”

“Finally!”

“Awesome!”

“Great job,” Shiro says.

“And from each tile, a blue light follows a groove in the floor in a straight line inward, meeting at the pedestal. When all these lines meet, your lion statues come to life. They turn skyward and roar, deafeningly loud, and the pedestal glows blue, flashing so bright you all have to cover your eyes. When you open them again, a new statue has appeared on the pedestal. The statue is of a humanoid being with the head of a lioness. Your lions kneel.

“The lion goddess statue steps off the pedestal and begins moving toward the wall on the eastern side of the room. She walks through the wall and disappears. Your lions follow her. You move through the wall as though there’s nothing there, and you enter a small square room. The room contains a large wooden chest and a door and nothing more.”

Gleeful silence reigns. The party looks amongst themselves, grinning wildly but not speaking or moving.

“Well? What are we waiting for?” Keith says, a triumphant smile on his face. “Let’s get our loot.”

* * *

After the session ends, they all head outside. Matt and Shiro light up and stand together a few feet downwind of the rest of the group.

“What did you think of the session?” Matt asks.

Shiro hums thoughtfully. “I really liked that lion puzzle. I don’t think I’ve ever heard that little arguing. You got the whole party engaged and working together as a team.”

Matt grins. “That I did,” he says smugly. “I was hoping it would bring everyone together. I was a little worried about that, at the beginning. Keith was holding back.”

“Mm,” Shiro agrees.

Matt gestures with his cigarette. “And now look.”

Pidge finishes a story she’s been telling mostly with her arms by nudging Keith and delivering the punchline directly to him, complete with waggling eyebrows. Keith snorts loudly and immediately covers his mouth, eyes darting around the group. Lance bursts into laughter, and Hunk follows suit. Shiro hears, “Dude, did you just _snort_?” followed by, “Personally, I find that flattering. Maybe I should go into stand-up comedy.”

Shiro smiles. “I knew it. Underneath it all, he’s a nerd just like the rest of us.”

Matt chuckles. “I’m glad Keith wanted to join us. I think we ended up with a pretty good party dynamic, don’t you?”

Shiro takes a drag of his cigarette and lets the smoke out slowly, letting his breath draw out long and content. “Yeah,” he says, “I do.”

They can’t stand around forever. The kids have to get home. Lance is parked a couple blocks away from Matt’s place, so the trio say their goodbyes and head off.

Shiro pulls out his phone to call his Uber home. Keith peers over at his screen.

“Need a ride?” Keith asks.

Shiro waves him off. “No, that’s okay, my place is out of your way. Thanks for offering, though.”

Keith frowns. “You’re close, though, right? You and Matt drive home from work together.”

“Well, yeah…”

“So it can’t be that far out of my way. Come on.”

Shiro smiles. “All right,” he says. “Thanks. Bye, Matt. As always, thanks for hosting.”

“Bye, Shiro, Keith. See you at work.”

Keith offers a little wave, and then they’re on their way. “I parked near the café,” he says. “Sorry in advance that my car’s a piece of shit.”

“It’s better than my car,” Shiro says. At Keith’s confused look, he adds, “My car doesn’t exist.”

“Oh. Ha.”

Keith’s car is, in fact, a piece of shit, but it runs just fine. Keith’s a good driver, too, which puts Shiro at ease. The drive is mostly quiet, interrupted only by Shiro murmuring directions— _keep going past that light, turn right up ahead_.

Keith pulls up in front of Shiro’s building and parks but doesn’t turn his car off. He stares down at the steering wheel.

Shiro touches Keith’s shoulder. “Thanks for the ride.”

“Yeah, no problem.” Keith’s lip twitches. “Hey,” he says, “Shiro?”

“Yeah, Keith?”

Keith takes a deep breath. “Thank you, for inviting me to come play with you guys.”

 “Of course,” Shiro says. He squeezes Keith’s shoulder lightly before pulling away. “It’s good to have you with us.”

Keith nods, but it’s strained.

Shiro waits.

“It’s just, earlier,” Keith says, eyes still trained on the steering wheel, “before we went inside, I was so. Afraid. Of- of fucking up, or acting wrong, or yelling at one of your friends because something set me off. I know I’ve got issues with that, I know I have a temper. And you’ve been so patient with me, more than I deserve, and it would’ve killed me if I’d done something to push you away.

“But your friends are so nice, Shiro. They don’t have these- expectations of me, like other people do. They never asked me any questions about school, or my family, or anything. They all just…talked to me. Like I was already one of them. I’ve…never had that. So, thank you.”

“Keith.” Shiro’s heart floods with warmth for Keith even as grief settles into his bones for all the love and friendship Keith has been denied in his life. “You _are_ one of us. You belong here. And you’ll never do anything to push me away. I promise.”

Keith’s voice goes small. He grips the steering wheel tighter. “You don’t know that.”

“I do, Keith. Like it or not, you’re stuck with me.”

Keith slowly shakes his head. “The crazy thing is,” he says, “I believe you.” He meets Shiro’s gaze, brow furrowed, eyes searching. “I really, actually believe you.”

“Good,” Shiro says, smiling softly. “Because it’s tr—”

“You said,” Keith continues, voice low and wavering, “back when I first started dancing, you said that nobody comes into the industry knowing what they’re getting into. I really—” he turns away from Shiro, “I _really_ had no idea.  Stripping was a last resort for me. I was at a place where I couldn’t do anything else. I was alone. I’ve been alone. Nobody wanted me, Shiro. But you, and- and Matt, you’ve been so kind. You’ve let me into your lives even when no one else would. Shiro, I hate dancing sometimes. The way people talk to me- the way people try to _touch_ me- and the pain, I’m always in pain. But.” Keith sniffles and looks back up at Shiro, eyes wet. “You make all of that worth it. I’m so glad I started dancing. I’m so glad I met you.”

“Oh, Keith.” Shiro reaches over to squeeze Keith’s shoulder, or push his hair out of his eyes, or rub his arm, or _something_ , but finds himself with an armful of warmth instead. Keith locks his arms around Shiro’s neck and buries his face in Shiro’s shoulder. His hips are pressed against the console and stick shift, which can’t be comfortable, but he doesn’t acknowledge it at all. He holds tight.

Shiro relaxes into the hug, wrapping one hand around Keith’s middle and bringing the other up to cover the back of his neck. He drops his cheek against the top of Keith’s head and breathes in the scent of his hair. As his thumb rubs gentle circles into the base of Keith’s head, Shiro is struck with a feeling of safety and belonging that his recent memory only associates with falling asleep on Matt’s pull-out couch to the soft birdsong of early morning. He doesn’t dare go further into his memories than that.

He didn’t know how much he needed this. Selfishly, he wants it to never end. He wants to lead Keith’s warmth into his own cold apartment, wants Keith’s fire to crackle in his hearth, wants to fall asleep and wake up to this feeling every day for the rest of his life.

But this moment is not for him. It’s for Keith. And when Keith pulls away, Shiro lets go.

“I’m glad I met you, too, Keith.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _if you find your family, don't you cry_  
>  _in this land of make-believe, dead and dry_  
>  Breaking Benjamin, _So Cold_
> 
> award for shittiest d&d puzzle ever goes to ao3 user stripperviolet
> 
> I know I said this chapter would be strippery, but I...lied. All this needed to happen this chapter, though, so I'm not sorry. I'm not sorry for the song choice, either. I'd totally dance to this song on stage, but I know it's not, like. Stripper Shit. Next chapter will definitely definitely be strippery, and this time I'm not lying, I'll even give you the song. It's Powerglide by Rae Sremmurd.


	6. Dirty Sexy Money

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sort of a weird interlude I guess...?

“You can spank me harder, baby. I like it rough.”

A loud _smack_ echoes in the room, louder than the music pumping through the speakers. A split second later, Shiro feels the sting spreading across his right ass cheek. He lets out an exaggerated moan, and receives a spank to his left ass cheek for his trouble.

“That feels so good. Is my ass red?” He pulls his elbows off the floor and lifts his torso so he’s straddling his customer backwards, then rubs a hand over his sore skin. It’s too dark in the room to tell if it’s red. “Ooh, it is. Here, feel.” Shiro grabs his customer’s hand and plants it on his ass. “Feel how warm it is?”

“Yeah, babe, I feel that,” his customer murmurs. “Does it hurt?”

“It does. But only in a good way.”

Shiro looks over at Keith. Keith’s got his own customer to entertain, and he’s killing time just the same as Shiro. He’s sat straddling his customer, bent over him, whispering something in his ear. Shiro smiles. The Keith who started working here two months ago couldn’t imagine suffering through a conversation in order to sell a dance. Now, here he is, keeping his customer engaged so he doesn’t have to dance.

“Babe, go back down again,” Shiro’s customer says. “I want to do another bump off your ass while it’s still all red.”

Shiro complies, leaning forward and bracing his forearms on the floor. He’s got his shins tucked beside his customer’s thighs on the couch, and his lower back arched so his butt pops out. Face down, ass up.

He feels the _tap-tap-tap_ of his customer readying a key bump of coke on his right ass cheek, then the cooling _whoosh_ of a nostril against his skin.

“Damn, that’s a good feeling.”

Shiro straightens up again, pressing his ass into his customer’s crotch. “You like that?” he murmurs, hoping his voice is audible over the music. “You like spanking me until my ass is all red and hot, then doing coke off it?”

“It’s perfect,” his customer mutters for the third time tonight. “I just love to unwind with some blow and a sexy thing, it’s the perfect way to unwind, it just feels perfect, it’s the perfect feeling.” He keeps muttering to himself. Shiro lets him go on for as long as he wants.

Beside them, Keith and his customer are preparing to do the same thing. Keith’s kneeling on the couch with his arms crossed over the back, his ass popped out nice and round. The powder goes down, the customer snorts it up, and Keith starts bouncing his ass to the beat of the music.

“You sure you don’t want some?” Keith’s customer asks.

Keith shakes his head. There’s still a little smear of white on his skin.

Keith’s customer raises the baggie at Shiro, a question in the cant of his eyebrows.

And, sure, why not. “I’ll have some,” Shiro says.

To his surprise, Keith stills his butt and pushes it out even further. “Champion,” he calls, “you should do it off my ass.”

The customer stares between Shiro and Keith. He’s suddenly very interested in them, when previously he’d seemed to just want to do coke with his friend. “You guys are into that?”

Keith senses the change, too. “Of course,” he replies, his voice dropping to a low, seductive purr. “Champion can do whatever he wants with my ass.”

The customer’s body language shifts. Shiro inwardly applauds Keith for his quick persona change. Because of Keith, there’s probably at least another half hour on the table.

All Shiro’s gotta do is sell it. “Well, who am I to pass up an offer like that?” He manhandles Keith so his knees are spread wide and he’s on display. He slaps Keith’s ass, aiming for sound rather than pain, and Keith moans, small and breathy and convincing. “Pass me the blow?”

Shiro prepares himself a little bump, just enough to feel it. Keith’s thigh is soft and cool under his palm. Shiro’s breath catches. He leans in.

It’s over in a second. Shiro straightens up, breathing deeply in as the stimulant feeling rises in his chest and out as it tingles over his skin. He swipes his fingertip through the leftover powder and rubs it on his gums.

“All done?” Keith asks.

“Not quite.” Shiro rubs his hands over the swell of Keith’s ass. He turns to Keith’s customer and looks up at him through his eyelashes. “Doesn’t Dallas have such a great ass?”

Keith’s customer nods, evidently transfixed by the little show he’s getting. Shiro’s customer watches lazily.

“Don’t you think this ass deserves some money?” Shiro snaps Keith’s thong and watches his butt jiggle. “I think he’d look great with a money skirt. Can we do that? Can we give Dallas a money skirt?” He smacks Keith’s ass one more time for good measure.

Keith’s customer pulls out a handful of ones and tucks them into the back of Keith’s thong one by one, until Keith’s got a little skirt. Keith looks back over his shoulder and begins bouncing his ass. The bills flop up and down, _swish-swish-swish_ ing to the beat of the music.

“Carl,” Keith’s customer calls. Shiro’s customer—Carl, and Shiro _really_ needs to pay more attention to people’s names—tears his eyes away from Keith’s ass and looks up at his friend. “Here. Why don’t you give your guy a little skirt like my guy has?”

Keith shakes his ass in agreement.

“I’ve got my own ones,” Carl complains. “I don’t need yours.” He turns to Shiro. “I’m gonna do a line, and then I want to shower you in ones while you dance on me.”

“Sounds good, baby,” Shiro says. He watches carefully as Carl prepares his line on the table. He’s still got half—maybe a little less than half—of his coke left. That’s good. That’ll keep them in the room for a while longer.

Carl rails his line, tilts his head back, and breathes roughly. “Oh, that’s good,” he groans. “That’s so good. That’s perfect, babe. This is just the perfect feeling. I love to unwind with some blow and a sexy thing on my lap, it’s just so perfect. Babe, come _here_.” He tugs on Shiro’s wrist.

“I’m here, baby. You got my money?”

“Right here, babe, right here.”

Shiro seats himself on Carl’s lap, facing away from him, back arched, butt popped out. A new song begins, and Shiro starts to grind. His hands grip Carl’s thighs for support, and his feet brace hard against the carpet.

He hears the crisp flutter first. Then he feels the brush of paper tickling over his neck, down his back, over his arms. His grinds start to crinkle. He bends over, forearms planted on his knees, and bounces up and down. Bills collect on the flat of his back, then slide over his sides and puddle on the floor.

Warm hands, then, drag up and down Shiro’s sides. Shiro pulls up to a sitting position, then leans back and rests his head on his customer’s shoulder. More paper flutters to the floor, and sharp points of crunched bills poke at Shiro’s back. There’s a mouth at his ear, whispering, “Yes, babe, perfect, you’re just perfect, I just love to unwind with some blow and a sexy thing on my lap,” over and over again.

Shiro looks over at Keith. Keith is straddling his customer, legs spread wide, chest pressed up against his shoulder so the man can watch Keith’s ass as it jiggles and shakes. Keith’s got the remnants of his own money shower puddled under his shins, crinkling loudly to the beat of the music. He glances over at Shiro and grins. He’s gorgeous like this: confident. Happy. Covered in money and ready to clean house.

And clean house he will. Watching Keith work, Shiro can feel, deep in his bones, that these men are not leaving the room with any money left in their wallets. Shiro and Keith will clear these motherfuckers out and rack up charges on their credit cards to boot. This is power. This is control.

This is why he strips.

The VIP host knocks on the door, then cracks it open. “Half hour’s almost up,” he announces. “You’ve only got a few more minutes left with these hotties, unless you’d like to extend.”

Shiro tilts his head so his mouth lines up with his customer’s ear. “I’m having so much fun,” he murmurs. “It can’t be over yet. Let’s do another half.”

The customer shifts under Shiro to pull his wallet out. “What do you think, Joe?”

A silent conversation passes between the two men until they reach a consensus. “We’ll do another half hour.”

* * *

Shiro’s on top of the world.

It’s not the coke. Well, maybe it’s the coke, but even if it is, Shiro’s on top of the _world_.  There’s nowhere he’d rather be than here in the dressing room counting out his money, and there’s no one he’d rather be here with than Keith.

Keith’s eyes are hungry as he surveys his money. His smile is sharper now than it was when he started. He looks predatory, like a wolf right after a kill. Shiro can almost smell the blood on his fangs.

Keith must feel Shiro staring. He glances up, and his smile changes. He’s back to being fully human, but no less wild for it. He’s turned wicked now.

“Come here,” Keith purrs.

Shiro laughs even as his cheeks heat. It’s Keith’s stripper voice, the low one that he uses when he wants to make a sale. It’s strange to hear it in the dressing room, and even stranger that he’s reacting to it. “What do you need, baby?” he responds in his own stripper voice.

“I need to give you this.” Keith waves a twenty-dollar bill in front of him. “Let me put it in your thong?” Shiro juts his hip out, and Keith tucks the bill into the side of his thong. “Let me give you some more. I want to put them all around.”

Shiro turns, letting Keith’s playful fingers tuck bills around his hips. His breath stutters when Keith gets to the front of his thong, but Keith either doesn’t notice or pretends not to. “Let me do you now.”

“Mm, nope. Not yet.” Keith grabs a couple more bills and decorates the strings of Shiro’s top. “I want you to be covered in money.”

Shiro acquiesces, shivering when he feels the press of Keith’s fingertips against his skin. “Now, baby?” he asks when the fingers recede. “I want to give you some money.”

Shiro takes his time with Keith. He folds each bill pristinely and snaps it into Keith’s thong. Keith’s ass jiggles with each movement. When Shiro reaches the front, he tucks the bills gently, fingers just barely tickling over Keith’s warm skin. He can feel Keith’s abs tense with every tiny contact.

When he’s finally finished, Shiro steps away and surveys his work. “Baby,” he breathes. “you’re so cute in your little skirt. I just want to—” Shiro breaks character. “No,” he says, “nope. I’m backpedaling, that’s too creepy to say.”

Keith, to Shiro’s surprise and delight, _giggles_. Impossibly fast, he snaps back into character. “I want to dance,” he moans. He tilts his chin down and blinks up at Shiro. His eyelashes are impossibly long. “I love this song. Won’t you dance with me?”

Shiro re-affects his stripper persona. “Only because you’re so pretty when you ask.” He offers his hand. Keith takes it and slowly spins into Shiro, back pressed against Shiro’s front with his arms crossed in front of him. They sway back and forth for a few beats, money crinkling between them, until the last song ends.

The new song starts up, and Keith changes. He arches back against Shiro, one arm snaking up to grip at the back of Shiro’s neck, ass grinding into Shiro’s crotch. Shiro’s hands find Keith’s hips, steadying him and pulling him in. He moves on instinct; he doesn’t know what they’re doing, and he’s not sure he wants to analyze it too closely.

His face is flushed hot; he thinks his whole upper body must be one giant blush. He takes solace in the fact that Keith’s is too. Keith also doesn’t have the excuse of leftover stimulant filtering out of his system. In fact, Keith is sober. He didn’t even sneak a single drink in the room. Shiro doesn’t have the mental focus to think about that, not with the alcohol coursing through his own veins, and certainly not with Keith pulled so close.

Bills fall to the floor, collecting at their feet. Keith lets out a sigh that could almost be a moan and untangles himself from Shiro, but he’s not done. He grips the counter with both hands and pops his ass out, no longer grinding but clapping instead. His cheeks and thighs jiggle, and Shiro can’t tear his eyes away. Keith really does have a great ass.

“What are you waiting for?” Keith throws Shiro a heavy-lidded glance over his shoulder. There’s barely-contained mischief in his eyes. He bites his lip. “Spank me? Baby?”

Shiro feels the roughness in his voice but can’t stop it from coming out. “How- how hard?” The result is a little too close to his real voice.

“Just a little. I like the feeling of being spanked, but I can’t take the pain.”

Shiro smacks Keith’s ass, just like he did back in the room. It’s all sound and no sting. Keith gives the same exaggerated moan. Shiro relaxes into the sound. “Like this, baby?” He’s got his stripper voice back.

“Just like that.” Shiro smacks him again. “Ooh, yeah. That’s perfect, baby, just perfect.” Keith slants a look at Shiro that’s all Keith and no stripper, and that’s the only warning Shiro gets before Keith launches into a perfect rendition of, “I just love to unwind with some blow and a sexy thing on my lap, it’s just the perfect way to unwind. That’s all I need, just some blow and a sexy th—”

“Shut up!” Shiro swats at Keith’s ass one last time before turning around and pretending to walk away. “I could’ve gone my whole life without hearing that again.”

Keith’s laugh makes Shiro turn back around. God, but he’s radiant when he laughs. “Your customer was _so annoying_. I’m amazed we made it through an hour and a half with those assholes. That whole last half hour I was right on the edge of putting my foot through your guy’s face just to get him to shut up.”

“Believe me, I know. But, hey.” Shiro makes a sweeping gesture at the money that they’ve laid out on the counter. “We got paid.”

Keith looks between the money and Shiro. He smiles. “We did.”

Just like that, the moment is over. They pick the bills off the floor and out of their outfits, then they turn back to their piles of money to resume counting. Neither acknowledges what just happened. Shiro wants to ask, wants to know what Keith intended by having them play stripper for each other, but he doesn’t want to make it weird. So he lets himself return to normal, counting his money and swaying his hips to the music.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _if you wanna pu-pu-pu-pu-put it on me_  
>  _you're not gonna ge-ge-ge-ge-get it for free_  
>  _come on spend that dirty sexy money on me, on me, on me_  
>  David Guetta & Afrojack, _Dirty Sexy Money_ (feat. Charli XCX and French Montana)
> 
> my favorite part of this chapter is when shiro thinks "man I really should be better about remembering my customers' names" and then promptly re-forgets his customer's name within like five minutes. #relatable
> 
> This is...not Powerglide. "I can't believe that stripper lied to me again," you say. I didn't lie on purpose. I tried to write Powerglide and this self-indulgent mess came out instead. I guess this is what happens when I try to write strippers stripping? Instead of playing D&D or going on a smoke break lol. Idk I just wanted to write two scenes where similar things happen but the feel is way way different. At the same time, neither scene is "real." Shiro and Keith aren't themselves for the vast majority of this chapter. I wanted to explore money as an intoxicant. It really is like a drug in this industry.
> 
> I don't want to make any promises about next chapter, but I'd like to do "#stripperproblems" as a theme. I've already strayed so far from what this fic was supposed to be, maybe it's time to rein it back in?


	7. No Tears Left to Cry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> little mini chapter as I try to figure out where this story is going

“I _need_ your number,” Shiro’s customer whines. He’s gotten a few dances, and Shiro’s been trying to get him to do more, but ever since they came back from the dance area, he’s been obsessed with seeing Shiro outside the club. “You’re so perfect. I know you’re here to sell dances, but I want more than that. I want to take you out to dinner. I want to date you. I’ll take care of you. Give me your number, okay? Okay?”

That’s Shiro’s cue to go. “I don’t think my boyfriend would like that very much,” he murmurs. “Listen, I’ll be right ba—”

“You have a boyfriend?” For someone who was just literally begging Shiro for a date, the man sounds flabbergasted.

Shiro nods solemnly. “So I can’t go out with you. I’m already dating someone.”

“Does he know you strip?” Shiro nods again. “And he _lets you_?” The scandalized expression on the customer’s face makes Shiro’s skin crawl. He was going to make his excuses and leave without fanfare, but now he has to get in the last word.

Shiro leans in close, like he’s letting the man in on a secret. “He doesn’t _let me_ do anything,” he hisses hoarsely, his throat holding back the aggravated scream he wants to let loose on the guy. “I do what I do, and if he doesn’t like it, he’s free to leave whenever he wants.” He stands. “Bye.”

Shiro bypasses the other customers on the floor and heads for the dressing room to take a short break. He’s usually pretty good at not letting people rile him up, but this conversation prodded at old wounds that, while healed over, still ache. A wrong feeling settles in his gut, twisting and writhing and grating. 

He pops his locker open and starts wiping himself down with baby wipes. It doesn’t help the feeling, but he was a little sweaty anyway. He reapplies his deodorant and body spray, then pulls out a few outfits, contemplating changing.

No, he decides after a moment, he doesn’t need to change. This outfit is fine. He needs to touch up his makeup, though. He pulls out his makeup bag and stares into it.

Shiro tells himself he’s not bitter. Most days he isn’t.

Someone clatters into the dressing room. Shiro snaps out of whatever weird place his head was in and turns around. It’s Keith, flushed pink and grimacing. He makes a beeline for the big fan on the floor, turns it on high, angles it up toward his body, and spread-eagles in front of it.

“Mm,” Keith sighs, closing his eyes and dropping his chin to his chest. He stays that way for a full minute before he even looks up.

Keith startles when he spots Shiro. “Shit,” he says. “Didn’t see you there.”

“Hi,” Shiro says lamely. He realizes that he’s been standing stock still, surrounded by almost all the crap that he keeps in his locker, for a while.

Keith looks at Shiro, then at his stuff, then back at Shiro. “How long have you been in here?” he asks. He gestures out toward the floor. “There’s people out there.”

“I- I know,” Shiro says, moving to rub a hand over his face before thinking better of it. The end result is an awkward hand gesture that he feels accurately describes his ability to function right now. “I just…need a second.”

“Oh,” Keith says. He turns back toward the fan, purses his lips, and turns back to Shiro. “Anything, uh, anything you wanna talk about?”

Shiro shakes his head. He surveys the things he’s strewn all over the counter. It’s a mess of outfits and shoes and sprays and powders. “No,” he says. “Just a customer getting to me.”

Keith frowns. “Really?” he asks. “You usually have such thick skin.”

Shiro shrugs. “I know. I guess he just hit me in a sore spot.”

Keith turns off the fan and comes in close. He puts a hand on Shiro’s shoulder. “I know that feeling,” he says, smiling softly. “Some people come in here just to say horrible things to strippers. You can’t let them get you down, Champion. You taught me that.”

“You’re right, Dallas,” Shiro says, still looking down at all his stuff. “I think what really sets me off, though, are the ones who aren’t trying to cause pain. They’re just saying what they’re thinking.”

Keith sighs and squeezes Shiro’s shoulder. “Yeah,” he says. “I get it.”

Shiro scrambles for the words to describe the way he feels. He doesn’t find them, and swallows down half-formed phrases instead. “Dallas,” he murmurs. “I’m fine, really. There are people out there. You should go.”

Keith breathes out a laugh. “Not without you.” He sweeps an arm over the counter and grabs an armful of Shiro’s stuff. “Let’s get all this put back. Want me to fix your makeup?”

“That’s rude,” Shiro says. He breathes and feels like he’s coming back to himself. “What’s wrong with my makeup?”

This time, Keith’s laugh is full. “I know you’ve looked in the mirror. Look, I’ll do yours if you’ll do mine. Deal?”

Shiro finally takes a good look at Keith’s face. He’s got a smear of mascara under his eyes, and he’s sweated little beads of his foundation off so it almost looks like he’s got freckles. Shiro's face warms with fondness. Keith is hopelessly adorable all messed up.

“…Shiro?” Keith cocks an eyebrow, and Shiro realizes he’s been staring.

He shakes it off. “Deal,” he says.

* * *

Shiro looks around his apartment. It’s cheap Swedish minimalist, every single piece of furniture put together with pegs and Allen wrenches. Some of the larger pieces look a little wonky—the ones that suggested two people assemble them. Shiro put them together by himself.

None of this furniture was meant to be here forever. Shiro bought it as placeholder furniture until he could find better, higher-quality, homier pieces. It’s been almost two years now, and it’s all still here.

It’s been almost two years, and this apartment still doesn’t feel like home.

There are a couple blankets draped over the back of his couch. It was an attempt to make the space look a little cozier, a little less temporary. They just look out of place.

Shiro’s never had anyone over. He’s never felt like this was a place he could bring people. He doesn’t want people to look at his IKEA-catalog rooms, his bare walls, his soulless living space, and see the life he leads when no one else is around.

Shiro thinks about what Keith said. How Keith figured he would like Shiro’s apartment better than Matt’s. How Keith felt uncomfortable being in such a lived-in space. Shiro wonders if, on some level, he’s similar. He likes Matt’s place so much because it’s homey. Maybe the reason he hasn’t done any work on his place is because he doesn’t want a real home of his own. Maybe he’s afraid of having another home taken away from him.

These days, Shiro rarely thinks about his parents. He rarely thinks about Adam. Now, staring blankly into his living room, memories and feelings swirl within him, trapping him. All the love he used to feel. All the pain of having it taken away. And all the fear of it happening again.

But Shiro’s been doing a better job of letting people in lately. He has Matt. He has Pidge, and Lance, and Hunk. He has Keith. All these people know him for who he really is. They accept him. They’ve never asked him to change for them.

Warm afternoon light filters in from the living room window and illuminates a rectangle of carpet in front of the couch.

Might be a nice place for a rug.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _right now i'm in a state of mind_  
>  _i wanna be in like all the time_  
>  _ain't got no tears left to cry_  
>  _so i'm pickin' it up, pickin' it up_  
>  _i'm lovin', i'm livin', i'm pickin' it up_  
>  Ariana Grande, _no tears left to cry_

**Author's Note:**

> yell at me on tumblr stripperviolet.tumblr.com


End file.
